Chapter 34 The Silver Dawn Inn
THE SILVER DAWN INN
CEDRIC
Whatever might have been going on outside the walls of the Silver Dawn Inn, Cedric had been correct in one thing: It looked exactly as he remembered.
The place was warm, inviting, with timber beams that stretched across the ceiling and air that was thick with the scent of bubbling stew. The walls were lined with simple tapestries, a fire crackling in the hearth along one side, a wide wooden staircase that led to the rooms upstairs on the other.
A few patrons were scattered around the space, nursing their drinks. One man sat at the bar, another near the hearth, tankard in hand. A pair of women conversed by the window, the candle at their table casting a long, flickering shadow.
They all looked up as the group filed in—Sephone at the front; Ollie, Thraigg, and Tristan close behind her; Cedric and Elyria trailing in as the door shut behind them.
It was natural enough that the locals might be curious, Cedric supposed.
Even with wings hidden and hoods drawn, they were a conspicuous bunch.
The sheer number of them alone, even with Young Shep and Jocelyn keeping watch over the horses, was bound to draw eyes.
Still, their reactions were not nearly as, well, reactive, as Cedric might have thought they would’ve been. Almost like they’d been—
“Welcome, welcome!” boomed a voice from behind the bar.
The innkeeper stepped into view with a practiced flourish, drying his hands on the smudged apron tied around his waist. Barrel-chested and ruddy faced, his thick beard looked peppered with flour as his mouth curved into a broad smile.
“You’ve finally arrived! How wonderful!” He gave Cedric a short bow. “We’ve been anticipating your arrival for several days now, my lord.” He turned to Elyria, bowing again. “My lady.”
“You’ve been expecting us?” Elyria said, brow arched.
The innkeeper chuckled, waving them deeper into the tavern. “Why, yes,” he called over his shoulder. “Missives were sent weeks ago, of course. The Silver Dawn always makes room for guests of honor. You’re most welcome here.”
Elyria caught Cedric’s eye, her brow furrowing. Her lips barely moved when she murmured, “How did they know to expect us now? He even recognized the two of us specifically. It’s not as though the king told every township in Havensreach to expect a visit from the Arcanian delegation, right? Right?”
Cedric bit the inside of his cheek as Thibault, Hargrave, and Thraigg followed the innkeeper to the bar, while Sephone, Tristan, and Ollie slid into a large booth along the far wall.
The discomfort of realization had Cedric shifting his weight as he reached for Elyria’s wrist and drew her to a stop. “It would certainly not be in the best interest of being able to track Varyth Malchior’s whereabouts if our presence was being broadcast ahead of time.”
“That’s a lot of words to say absolutely nothing, Sir Tactful. Out with it.”
He lowered his voice to a matching whisper.
“I confess I have lately found myself wondering about the depths of King Callum’s and Lord”—he swallowed—“Church’s motivations.
Whether they truly want you to find Varyth Malchior at all.
There is little benefit to the kingdom should you locate him, let alone should Nyrundelle obtain the crown. ”
Elyria let out an indignant huff. “Nyrundelle won’t—”
“I know that,” Cedric interjected, rubbing his thumb along the underside of her wrist. “I know you have no intention of turning the crown over to your king. But he doesn’t know that, does he? And neither does my own king.”
“So he is, what, sabotaging our efforts?” Her voice sharpened, and it was suddenly as though the shadows were extending from the tavern walls, drawing toward her.
Cedric placed gentle pressure on the inside of her wrist in an attempt to remind her of where they were.
Elyria sucked in a deep breath and the shadows stilled. “Why even bother letting us go if that was the case?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” Cedric admitted, sliding his hand to play with her fingers, as though ticking his thoughts off on them, one by one. “Perhaps they simply ran out of excuses to delay. Maybe all they hope for is the distraction of sending you chasing after Malchior’s ghost.”
“Were only he already a ghost,” Elyria grumbled. “Then my job would be done, and I could go back—”
She cut herself off, looking from Cedric’s face to where his hand still loosely gripped her own, then back again.
He wasn’t absolutely sure what she was going to say, but if she was about to comment that she could go back home, he took it as a good sign that she hadn’t seemed to want to finish the thought, at least.
He released her hand, wondering where she would be by the time he returned from Elderglade. Would she have already gone home? Was there still a chance she could track down Malchior without this promised lead?
A raucous laugh drew Cedric’s attention to the bar, where Thraigg, Hargrave, and Thibault had taken up residence.
With a mug that was nearly as large as the hand that held it, the dwarf had turned to the man sitting to his left and was already bending his ear about something.
To his credit, the man looked engrossed in their conversation.
With the entire trio, really. Shaggy pepper-colored hair flopped over one eye as the man leaned over Thraigg to say something to Thibault before taking a drag from his own cup.
“Come, come,” said the innkeeper, waltzing back over to Cedric and Elyria and beckoning them toward the booth where the rest of the group sat, a pitcher of ale and several cups already resting on the table.
“You’ve had a long journey. Rest your bones.
Food’s on the way. I’ll send my boys to fetch the rest of your party and bring your horses around to the stables out back.
Your rooms are being readied as we speak. ”
“Very kind of you,” Cedric said, the words somewhat stilted as Elyria breezed past him and, after leaning her staff against the wall, slid into the booth beside Ollie and Tristan.
That left the only open spot at the table across from her, next to Sephone.
Cedric sat down with a stifled sigh, and the innkeeper bustled off, humming to himself.
“So,” Elyria said, eyes narrowing just slightly on Sephone. “What exactly have we walked into?”
Sephone fixed Elyria with a look. “What makes you think I know?”
“You’re the one who led us here. Where is your oh-so-mysterious ‘lead’ on”—Elyria dropped her voice, casting a glance in the direction of the women by the window a few tables away—“him?”
“A lead is never a guarantee,” Sephone said, voice cool. “In Luminaria, we intercepted messages and tracked the movements of suspected cultists. All paths led here.”
“But did they lead here because there’s actually something here to find, or because this is simply the closest village to the Chasm crossing, and of course movement could be tracked here?” Elyria asked.
Sephone’s face fell, one of her spiked cuffs scratching against the table as she rotated her hand, cracking the bones in her wrist. “Did you have any better leads, my lady?”
“What makes someone a ‘suspected’ cultist, anyhow?” Tristan asked quickly, pouring drinks from the pitcher and passing them around.
“Yes,” Cedric chimed in with a grateful look at his friend. “Is there some sort of criteria? All the cultists Tris and I have encountered in our line of work have been somewhat, well, obvious.”
“Obvious?” Ollie asked, brow arched.
“Between the two of us, we’ve interrupted a fair number of rituals.” Tristan pursed his lips, the scar in his cheek quivering. “It certainly becomes obvious enough when the blood has been spilled and those bastards are drawing from the dark magic within.”
“And you never thought to ‘interrupt’ before blood is spilled in the first place?”
Cedric released a nervous laugh. “By the time word typically reached us in order to interfere, it was because the Cult of Malakar was in the midst of something particularly nefarious.”
“Blood magic is against the law and the king especially does not condone the rituals that accompany its practice,” Tristan added, “but we cannot simply go around accusing every seedy-looking bastard of being sanguinagi.”
“Hmm,” Sephone tutted, “if only you all maintained that attitude every time you came across an Arcanian in Havensreach prior to the accords. Perhaps there would be fewer of us wasting away in the Ironridge dungeons at this very moment.”
An awkward silence fell over the table.
Surprisingly, Elyria was the one who broke it. “Kit said that prisoner exchanges have been going smoothly.”
“Have they?” Sephone mused, taking a swig from her cup.
“Interesting that you would even consider it an exchange. The only prisoners Aerithia even had to send back were cultists and anti-Arcanian fanatics. Heretics. Whereas you all”—her black eyes darted between Cedric and Tristan—“have always been more than happy to arrest our kind at first sight, clipping their wings for no reason other than existing.”
Shame was an iron-hot poker in Cedric’s chest, lancing at his heart. He thought about the last arrest he’d been part of prior to entering the Crucible. Thought of the fae he’d had a hand in dragging away, the human woman, pregnant with a mixedborn child, crying his name.
Tristan cleared his throat. “Yes, well. I don’t think any of us are short on new perspective lately.”
More silence followed, punctuated by the occasional thud of a mug being placed on the table, until it was finally pierced by the innkeeper’s return.
He placed a large tray piled with square biscuits, pots of jam, and several bowls of stew in front of them, plus an additional pitcher that boasted the tangy scent of cider.
Elyria’s eyes widened noticeably, and she was quick to reach across the table, dump the remainder of her ale into Cedric’s mug, then proceed to fill her own cup with cider.