Chapter 6
By the time they reached the tavern, Reis knew she was starving.
It had taken them till midday to reach the edge of the city and several more grueling hours of dirt-packed roads before the tavern finally came into view.
She hadn't eaten anything since the night before, yet not once did she complain.
They approached the sleepy tavern. The air was heavy with the smell of woodsmoke and distant rain. Thick cabin walls and a pillar of smoke promised a warm retreat from the cooling weather.
Reis dismounted first, boots striking the muddy ground with a dull thud before he turned to help Mirielle down from the saddle.
The moment her feet touched the earth, her legs gave out beneath her. She staggered sideways.
Reis caught her. One large hand steadied her waist while the other closed firmly around her arm, grounding her before she could fall. His brow furrowed faintly as he looked down at her.
“You’re exhausted.”
Mirielle shook her head automatically despite the obvious weakness in her body.
“I’m alright.”
Reis did not look even slightly convinced.
He directed Mirielle through the large oak-hewn door. His hand hovered just above the small of her back, ready to steady her if she stumbled as they climbed the wooden steps that led inside.
The air inside was thick with the smell of roasting meat, pine smoke and spilled ale.
Farmers and travelers in dirt and sweat-stained tunics crowded the simple timber tables scarred by years of wear.
Low conversations blended with bursts of gruff laughter over pints of mead and ale.
Half-spent candles lit iron coronas while a fire roared in a stone hearth, basking the room in a cozy warmth.
"I see ye've returned," said a rosy-cheeked barmaid from behind a heavy wooden counter. She wore a simple dress and a linen apron stained with beer and red sauces. "That horse of yers has gone craved a lot of attention to erself, silly, spoiled thing she is," she remarked. "What can I do ye for?"
"A room, food and drinks, Maisey. I'll pay the hay bill too."
Mirielle nervously clenched her skirt. He had already spent one night in her room and she wasn't quite ready for it to be a routine.
Maisey, however, was a very shrewd barmaid and didn't miss Mirielle's reaction.
"A room?" Maisey repeated.
"Just one," Reis insisted.
Maisey puffed up her chest and squared her shoulders. "Now ye listen here." She narrowed her eyes. "Ye've been a good patron and I appreciate the business. But I can tell by lookin' at the lass that she ain't yer wife and I won't have no woman compromised under my roof and no skulduggery either."
"The bed is for her," he said in a low tone, "I'll be standing guard."
"Outsieede the room?" Her voice pitched incredulously.
His jaw twitched. He had planned to spend the night in a chair while she slept.
Every instinct he possessed screamed at him that he shouldn't let her out of his sight and he wouldn't be at ease unless he could see her.
Her value to any kingdom was immeasurable.
He had little doubt they were already being trailed by hired mercenaries.
It was why he had chosen to travel alone in the first place.
Fewer people meant they could move faster, leave a lighter trail and slip across the countryside with far less notice.
"I won't have ye tormentin' the poor lass. And I'll be putting a lock on her door to keep ye out."
"No windows." Reis leaned on the bar, apparently trying to keep their conversation private. Mirielle shifted next to him uncomfortably.
Maisey put her hands on her hips and gave Reis a disappointed look. She glanced at the marks on Mirielle's neck and scowled.
"Lass, if yer unsafe I can have the boys throw him out." She popped out her thumb and gestured towards the door.
Reis braced. For a moment, he thought she might take her offer.
Mirielle held her hands nervously in front of her, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the conversation was already pressing on her. "That won't be necessary," she said softly with a shy half-smile.
Reis shifted on his feet.
"Fine," she relented, "no windows and you can sit in a chair in the hall or get yer own room."
Maisey poured two frothing pints of honey-spiced mead and passed them over the bar.
Reis dropped a handful of coins onto the counter, grabbed the drinks and led Mirielle to a small table where she could warm herself by the fire.
It sat on the edge of the tavern's bustle, close enough for warmth but far enough that she wouldn't be swept into the patrons' games and drunken merriment.
Mirielle missed the large, gruff-looking man with a bulbous nose and dirt-stained breeches when he regarded them as they passed.
His gaze swam in a glossy, faded way, the result of far too much ale as he stared at Mirielle for far too long.
Reis scowled at him in warning, his presence invading like a spear and the man quickly retreated to his drink.
They sat down and Reis passed her a mug of mead. She drank the sweet amber liquid eagerly, parched from the day's journey. Maisey set down two heaping plates filled with glistening stew of root vegetables and venison accompanied by black baked bread.
Reis ate like a man accustomed to battlefields and rough company, efficient and thorough, like food was fuel and little else. Across from him, Mirielle picked delicately at her meal while trying and failing not to stare at everything around her.
The tavern fascinated her.
Laughter burst from a table of drunk merchants near the hearth as serving girls wove effortlessly through crowded tables carrying trays laden with frothing tin tankards. The smell of roasted meat, ale, wet wool and smoke filled the air. It felt like life—real life.
Reis watched as Mirielle's gaze shifted around the room. She was curious about everything, but he could see nervousness as well. Her shoulders tensed and she shifted in her seat whenever someone laughed too loudly nearby.
But then he noticed something else. Something new. Something he had seen too many times to miss.
Fear.
Not of the tavern. Not of the noise or the strangers. Fear of him. Reis slowed as the realization settled unpleasantly beneath his ribs.
Mirielle carefully set down her fork. "There is something I should tell you."
Reis became still.
She stared at the table. "My family did not consult me regarding this marriage."
"I assumed as much."
She blinked. "Oh." She paused. "That isn't the important part."
"No?"
Mirielle shook her head. "The Sirael gift..." Her voice faltered. "...I don't have it."
Reis watched her.
"I've never been able to produce the light." She spoke like someone reciting terms before an execution. Then she folded away from him, her shoulders rigid, her head bowed submissively, waiting for disappointment, perhaps, or anger.
Silence stretched between them. The tavern noise seemed to fade around the edges.
Reis sat back in his chair and folded his arms.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't the kind of menacing, ghoulish smile that you would see from someone who had been tricked, but a challenging, taunting smile. The kind you would see when a warrior meets a worthy adversary on a battlefield after decades of searching.
Mirielle's pulse jumped—a sharp stutter, then accelerated.
There.
Reis nearly laughed.
Liar.
Nobody could lie to Reis and very few people knew it. Their hearts betrayed them before they could speak the words—a distinct flicker of a pulse pushed by adrenaline.
Reis had suspected foul play the moment that he heard of Mirielle's hand being offered. Nobody in their right mind would willingly part with a woman with a bloodline gift as powerful as hers. His suspicions were confirmed when he listened to Orbin drone on with lie after lie about her ability.
It left only a few possibilities. Either she possessed no gift at all, she had yet to manifest it or she had successfully hidden it for over a decade.
He thought the third option was unlikely, but it was also the one he'd hoped for. Reis didn't like to take risks, so in case it was either of the latter options, he happily paid her enormous bride price.
And now he knew.
"Dormant," he repeated softly. He watched his thumb brush over the handle of his mug as he tried and failed to hide his smile.
Mirielle rubbed her thumbs in her lap, a fidgety motion that could only be a nervous habit. She suddenly seemed intensely fascinated by a scratch on the table.
"That's... disappointing," he lied.
She shifted and looked up at him carefully. "You aren't angry?"
"At you?" He scoffed. "No."
He was impressed was what he was. Orbin was no fool.
Reis had watched Orbin maneuver his way into winning alliances and profitable trade deals.
He wasn't the kind of king who inspired loyalty or warmth.
He was cold and calculating, always a step ahead of his adversaries.
His cunning was born from ambition, the deep-rooted desire to prove himself despite his own blood's impotency.
Yet here was little Mirielle, fooling him for over a decade. He had pawned his greatest treasure and he didn't even know it. That thought was oddly satisfying to Reis.
Orbin probably hoped he would learn of her deception and kill her for him, winning him a big pot of gold, or in this case a cartload of silver, and securing his throne for his heirs. He had been thoroughly outplayed by the very person he underestimated—this beautiful, cunning little princess.
"What are you going to do with me?” Her voice was small enough to barely rise above the hum of the tavern, but it cut cleanly through Reis’s thoughts all the same. His grin vanished from his face.
Reis watched her. He could feel the fear in her. Not loud panic or hysterics, but something quieter. Older. The sort of fear that had lived inside someone for so long it had become part of the way they lived and breathed.
And gods he hated it.
"I'm going to hide you in the North." He told the truth. "Far from Orbin's reach where you will be safe."
At first she looked unconvinced. Suspicion flickered across her delicate features automatically, like distrust had become instinctive.
Then he saw it, a tiny thing, so small he might have missed it if he were anyone else.
Hope.
It flashed in her strange, silvered eyes, bright and fragile as candlelight.
And then vanished.
Gone so quickly it almost hurt to witness, as though she had snatched it back from herself before it could fully exist. Locked it away somewhere deep inside and thrown away the key long ago.
Reis felt something twist unpleasantly in his chest.
Because he suddenly understood with terrible clarity that this woman had learned not to trust. Someone had taught her that hoping only made the disappointment worse.
Rage stirred low beneath Reis’s ribs, not at her. At the people who had carved this kind of fear into someone so soft.
She sat rigid before him despite her obvious exhaustion, hands folded tightly in her lap, shoulders drawn inward as though trying to make herself smaller, safer, like she was trying to take up as little space in the world as possible.
It unsettled him more than open fear would have.
Because frightened people fought.
Mirielle endured.