Chapter 6
Nyx
I still cannot allow myself to cry.
Not here, sitting at this old, weathered bar, my palm cupped around a warm tin cup of ale. Not with the men laughing and jostling around me as I wait for my bowl of stew.
It’ll be nothing like Hilda’s cooking, I know. She warned me of how the inns and taverns would water down their offerings, until the meal would be more broth than substance, but I have no other ideas for where to eat tonight, and no interest in going out on the street again.
Even if that might be my best bet at finding a partner for the Trials.
I can’t stop thinking about Lyra. Where she is right now. If she’s safe. If those vampires took any liberties, biting or otherwise, while transporting her to the capital.
Surely, she’s safe. That’s the honor of being the Courted Prize. Lavish quarters, the best handmaidens in the land. Constant care and treats, like the pastries, the chocolates, and the exotic and expensive tarts you might try as the Courted Prize.
Still, if those accouterments don’t include medicine, my sister could be suffering greatly at the present. Besides, it’s not as though the gods are particularly known for telling the truth, especially when it comes to their treatment of mortals.
I’m so deep in my thoughts that the ruckus around me fades to the background, dimming. That is, until a body settles into the barstool beside mine, and I’m instantly aware of the man sitting there.
Swallowing, I force myself not to turn and look at him. Even without turning my head, though, I can understand the grand scope of him. He’s a big man. A strong man. He has the tough hands of a fighter, which are tapping on the bar thoughtlessly.
Even from here, I can make out the mussed brown hair on his head, falling down over his forehead. The sharp line of a Roman nose, his jaw strong, but softened with stubble matching the color of his head. He smells of a scent I can’t place, familiar yet distant.
Perhaps oakmoss, old pen ink and earth, resinous forest lichen. Bittersweet and leathery, though that could be the rich, dark brown jacket he wears, which conforms to his shoulders and broad chest like a well-worn glove.
I realize, without meaning to, I’ve let my eyes stray to him after all. I snap them back, hoping he hasn’t noticed me staring, and swallow down the breathlessness I feel. My lungs are light and airy, hard to fill, as though the linings have turned to cheesecloth.
This man is beautiful like an expanse of forest, catching a glimpse of the rolling fog at night. He’s beautiful like when I open my eyes in the water, watching the reach of lake weed at the bottom, yearning for the surface of the water.
Perhaps this man is a magic wielder, casting a glamor over himself to affect such beauty. Or perhaps he’s not a man at all. He could be a vampire. A shifter. A creature able to embody beauty beyond what humans can hold, even in their prime.
The bartender finally appears, and he orders stew and ale, like me, in a voice low enough that I feel it vibrating in my bones.
I bite my tongue hard and try to get a grip on myself.
Even if he’s casting some sort of magic, I should keep control.
Has it really been so long since I’ve been around an attractive man that simply the sight of him, his presence beside me, makes me this breathless and uncertain, as though my insides are leaking straight through the boundaries of myself?
“Are you new to the city?”
At first, when he speaks, I don’t register that it’s directed at me. It feels absurd, that a being like him might even talk to me. Might even realize I exist in the first place.
I’m acting ridiculously, and I don’t like it at all. Shifting slightly, I gather myself and turn to him, careful to be reserved, not to show the effect he’s having on me.
“I am,” I say carefully, wondering if he’s noticed my distinct lack of a chaperon. “Though I’ve always wanted to visit, and have done extensive research.”
“And yet, you’ve chosen this inn for your lodgings?”
I bite my tongue. Hilda and Ivor would not be happy to know a man had discovered my lodgings quite so easily. And that he already knew I was inexperienced in the city and likely alone.
“Relax, I was just joking,” he says with a laugh, his eyes darting to the barkeep. “The owners are good people. The locks on the rooms are sturdy. You should be fine.”
Despite what he says, I do not relax. “Is there another inn I should have considered, instead?”
“The Bardlebee Inn, on the end of the street, doesn’t water down the stew as much.”
“If you don’t like it,” the barmaid says, arriving quite suddenly in front of us, dropping down two bowls of stew and two chunks of bread. I blink at her, realizing I’ve been so swallowed in him the rest of the tavern disappeared around me. “Then stop ordering it.”
“Thank you, Bertha,” the man says, smiling cheekily at the older woman, and even that from him is impossibly charming. There’s a boyish cut to the hard lines of his beauty.
Bertha, to her credit, only rolls her eyes and turns, stalking away to bring food to another pair of bar residents as though this man has absolutely no effect on her. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe I’m just particularly susceptible, having thrown myself into an unknown city like this.
“Look,” he says, turning to me suddenly, and I have to avert my eyes to keep them from wandering over the expanse of chest that’s suddenly available to me, covered as it is with a thin cotton shirt visible through his open jacket.
He’s so visibly strong, it’s hard to keep my gaze from him.
“I was at the palace. When you went before the gods.”
It takes my mind a second to adjust, and when I blink at him, some of the effect of his appearance falls away. I remember why I’m here. My sister. Lyra. The Trials.
I lean back, stiffening and eying him warily. “You were.”
“I was,” he says, nodding and picking up his spoon.
“I witnessed it, and I know that you need a partner for the Trials. To gain entry, you need someone at your side. Someone willing to fight alongside a lady. A lady who, I’m assuming, has never had a minute of training in fighting in her entire life. ”
I consider telling him I’ve had precisely one minute of training. Ivor giving me the dagger and telling me to pull and stab.
Instead I say nothing, my stomach beginning to roil, no longer wanting the stew. It’s not just the reminder of my situation, the reality he’s dragging back to my doorstep like a cat with a dead bird. It’s the anticipation of what he’s going to say.
Forcing myself to eat, I prepare myself for whatever will come next.
Perhaps he thinks he’d be doing me a kindness to talk me out of it.
Perhaps he’s witnessed the Trials before, and plans to detail them to me, to explain exactly why it’s not worth it.
I prepare myself to completely ignore him, to push his words and sentiments from my mind.
I came here to save Lyra. And I’m not leaving until I do.
Then he says the absolute last thing I’d expect from him. “Well, I’m volunteering.”
“Volunteering?”
“To be your partner.” He turns to me, fixing me with the full weight of those heavy brown eyes, and I realize with a start that we’ve both finished our stews, our ales already lingering down to the bottom of the cups.
Time seems to move differently when I’m talking to him, slipping through my fingers quickly.
If my silence bothers him, he doesn’t show it, and goes on, “I’m a skilled fighter. In fact, I’ve been fighting since I was a boy. I trained with some of the best in the city. Won a few big fist fights, you know, the kind people bet on?”
I blink at him. I have no idea what he’s talking about. It’s a city thing, and he waves his hand like it doesn’t matter. “What I’m saying is that I’m experienced. More than just fist fighting, obviously. Weaponry. I think we could win together.”
My mind has finally caught up with this exchange. “Why would you want to partner with me? You already seem to know that I’m no trained fighter. That I’ve never used a weapon in my life.”
The dagger hanging around my waist seems to burn, and I feel, with a rush, the pulse of magic in my palms, a weapon I carry with me constantly but am powerless to use around others.
I’ve practiced, out in the woods behind the manor, when I was sure nobody, not even Lyra, could see me.
Theoretically, I know how I could hurt a person with my magic.
Balling it up, gathering it like ammunition, and using my power to throw it at another. The same movement that took out bushes and trees in our forest, leveling them easily.
It’s one thing to understand the theory, and another to actually use that power against another. Once again, the dagger is a reminder of that.
“I have my reasons,” he says, eying me, as though wanting to ask what I’ve been thinking about.
But before he can, something shoves into my back, hard, and my new acquaintance is on his feet.
“Get down!” he shouts, and I don’t need to be told twice. I slip off my stool and lower my head as a stray bar chair sails through the air, hitting the wall and bursting into a million pieces, many of which drop down onto the glass bottles below.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Bertha shouts from behind the bar, but then she’s ducking, too, narrowly avoiding a flying tin cup in her direction.
From my place huddled under the bar, I watch as my bar mate stands in front of me protectively, pushing away fighters who draw near. Slowly, perhaps knowing I shouldn’t, I start to crawl in the direction of my room, wanting to get out of the fray.
It’s scuffing up my nice dress, the one I wore to see the gods, but there’s nothing to be done for it.
My heart flies into my throat when a hand fists in the back of my dress, hauling me up, the fabric cutting sharply into my neck at the sudden force. I feel like a kitten being lifted by its scruff, then I’m looking into the eyes of a large, gruff man, who grins at me with several missing teeth.
“Well,” he says, his rancid breath blowing over my face as his eyes peruse my body. “What do we have here?”
I raise my arms, perhaps to push him away, but then he’s gone, the man from the bar dispatching him swiftly, sending him stumbling into another drunkard, who turns and swings merrily, without even looking to see who has bumped into him.
“I told you to stay put!” the man tosses angrily over his shoulder.
“No,” I correct, though maybe now isn’t the time. “You told me to get down. They’re quite different, actually—”
The look he gives me is equal parts exasperation, amusement, and surprise, and I can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corners of my lips, the satisfaction at teasing someone, even a stranger, and even in this situation. It’s like the tiniest vent to the frustrations of the day.
When I continue my path to my room, he protects me all the way, pushing men back into the throes of the fight, catching flying objects, and threatening those who even look at me wrong.
As I watch him, I realize there’s an unsettling precision to the way he moves. Faster, surer, more fluid than even the other skilled fighters in the room. He shifts as though he knows what’s going to happen next, as though he can predict it perfectly each time.
At the bar, I’d only half believed him as he told me about his experience, his fighting skills. Now, I have no choice but to witness it. To drink in the sight of him effortlessly fighting off three or four men at a time.
In a blink, we’ve climbed the stairs and reached the long hallway, and I’m unlocking the door, letting this man into my room.
He steps in after me, his hands bloody, his blood or an opponent’s, I’m not sure, tucked together in front of him.
I walk in, past the edge of the bed, and he stays standing by the door, watching me.
I’m reminded of Ivor, of his talk of honor. Decorum.
“Why?”
The man raises an eyebrow in my direction. “Why, what?”
“Why do you want to enter the Trials?” He’s quiet, and I go on, “I’m entering to get my sister back. To win her for myself and return her to our family home. So what is it that you want? Because if it’s the Courted Prize—”
“It’s not.” His gaze darkens, then he clears his throat and says, “I intend to take the greatest part of the prize.”
My eyes widen when I register what he means. The part of the prize that everyone desperately wants. “Divinity?”
He nods once, tersely. “Yes. Your sister is of no interest to me.”
That’s one of the interesting things about having teams for the Trials.
Everyone has to know what they want from the prizes.
Everything is split up between them according to their own agreements.
Whether you have one team member, or five, you split the prizes.
That’s why they typically keep the teams small.
Another long silence stretches between us, and I realize that I’ve put myself in another poor situation, standing in my room with a stranger as I am. A strange man whose strength I’ve never seen the likes of before.
And yet, I don’t feel like I’m in danger. There’s something oddly comforting about this large, violent stranger.
“Take the night to think it over,” he says, stepping toward the door, perhaps sensing my discomfort. “I will—”
“I’ll do it.” What choice do I have? “You and I will compete and win. You take the divinity, I keep the Courted Prize, and we split the rest.”
His eyebrows dart up when I say you and I will win but I ignore that. Without the certainty of will, I have nothing.
“Very well.” He clears his throat and nods, his hand lingering on the door handle. “I’ll be here first thing in the morning. We don’t have much time left, so we’ll train as much as we can. I can at least teach you basic techniques before the start of the Trials.”
After the door shuts behind him, I’m left in the silence and relative dim of my room, the stew from the bar sloshing in my stomach, mingling with the ale, making me feel slightly sick.
I sit on the bed. Now I have a team. A partner. I’m officially fighting in the Trials.
I’ve never been much of an optimist. More than likely, I will die. I know that.
But at the same time, I hold another truth. I would do anything to save my sister, to keep her safe. I can’t imagine leaving this place without her by my side.
There’s no other choice.
Riddled with these thoughts, I ready myself for bed, washing the best I can in the small sink.
I clean my face and brush back my hair. I wash and rinse my undergarments, hang them to dry for the morning, and slip into the nightshirt I brought.
It’s smaller than a nightgown and takes up less space in my pack.
It’s not quite proper, but there’s nobody here to witness me in the wrong sleeping attire.
For the first time in a very, very long time, I am alone.
And I fall asleep thinking about the man from the bar. It's just before I slip into my dreams that I realize that through everything, our meal, drinking, the fight, and the deal, I never learned his name.