Wild at Heart
One might be forgiven for missing this piece entirely, as it’s carved into the bed, a little secret the artist keeps close to his chest. This maiden has been carved into each leg, the only artwork replicated within the space.
But this woman is shown four times, each a different pose, a different scene.
The common factor is the woman’s expression, unfettered and joyous.
The first depicts her in a wild wood, surrounded by adoring wild creatures.
Another shows her astride a pooka. The third finds her trailing a hand in a wildly rushing river.
And the final scene provides a glimpse of her perched high in the boughs of a tree, holding a round and perfect apple.
The beholder might wonder whether she is the embodiment of freedom or temptation.
Possibly, the artist perceives her as both.
Kerboros
That moment with Thea leaves me giddy.
We almost kissed. It wasn’t just me; she felt it too.
I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but I could shout from the joy of it.
Somehow I contain myself and consult a random brownie for directions.
She tells me to head for the outer edge of the market, toward the archway that leads into the palace.
Thea follows, close enough that I feel her warmth at my back.
The stall is large compared to the others, twice as wide, with a table displaying tinctures and salves in front and shelves behind arranged with potions. Purple silk banners drift in the breeze, matching the cloth that covers the tabletop.
Thea seems interested in their wares, and I wish I could indulge her further. Left to my own devices, I’d give her the world. Through my incompetence, we’ve wasted so much time. Guilt chews at me.
Tempest greets us with a smile. They have long white hair caught back in a braid and twinkling lavender eyes.
As with many fae, their face is smooth, no lines to determine their age.
Not high fae, I think, but I don’t recognize their features.
Something about the angle of their cheekbones and the width of their shoulders whispers of a different lineage, not one I’ve encountered before either.
I glance at Thea to see if she wants to do the talking. She is known for being social, popular among the wild fae. She shakes her head silently, and I suspect it’s because the misstep with the shawl vendor has rumbled her confidence. Based on my observations, she can’t be accustomed to failure.
I step closer to the stall, willing to try for her. “We’re told that you might know Taragon.” The statement sounds abrupt, even to my own ears.
Tempest cocks their head. “Told by whom?”
“I didn’t catch his name—the stone carver on the other side of the market.”
“Ah yes, you’re referring to Fenstig. I understand that you need information, but I also have a business to run. So let’s talk about potions before, shall we?”
“I’m in the market for a potion,” Thea says immediately. “What do you have?”
She’s bright-eyed and eager, peering at the jewel-hued bottles. I can see that the conversation won’t progress unless I let her peruse Tempest’s wares. Not that I’ve got the right to let her do anything. Thea can do whatever she wants; she’s proven that time and again.
Thea bounces a bit as Tempest points to a particular set of potions. “I have one for buoyancy, one to turn you green—”
“Why would I want to be green?” Thea asks.
“You might be surprised by how many people are interested in that one,” Tempest replies. “But be warned, it’s not easy being green.”
Before she can get drawn into a lengthy discussion, I indicate a potion at random. “We’ll take that one.” Tempest wraps it up, and I pay for the purchase and then tuck it away in my pack.
“Don’t you even want to know what it does?” they ask.
I shake my head. “Not really. The situation is urgent, and I need an answer.”
“Right, yes, the referral. What was the question again?”
I do wonder if Tempest is fully in command of their faculties; they seem so easily distracted. But rudeness means starting over at a new stall, and I cannot use my cousin’s name to enforce compliance, something I have become too adroit with over long years.
As I restrain my impatience with the scatterbrained potion seller, Thea chimes in with congenial charm. “We’re looking for my friend Taragon. I always called her Tara. Her family owns a tavern in the area, but—”
“Tara. Oh.” For a second, a shadow clouds their sharp features, but then they force a smile. “You’re in luck. I know her well. Her father too, what a good soul. A good, kind soul.” They repeat the words with a strange note, not quite sorrow, but…bitterness, perhaps?
I might be wrong. The details I notice about others tend not to be emotional in nature.
When I glance at Thea, I see a flicker, and she tilts her head, raising a brow, which I take to mean she noticed something odd about Tempest’s tone too.
But we’re not here to investigate the potion maker’s failed relationships.
“Could you provide some directions?” I prompt.
“Certainly.” Tempest turns and gestures toward the other side of the market.
“Keep walking that way, straight along, then turn left when you see the statue of the rearing pooka. Go past it and duck between two tilted buildings. A green ivy bower connects the two, quite a picturesque archway. Pass through that courtyard—and don’t worry if someone yells at you.
That’s Ragh, and he’s kind of a curmudgeon. ”
“How come?” Thea asks.
“There’s a sad story, a lost love or a heartbreak of some sort. I’ve forgotten the particulars. He used to be the jolliest of sorts, but now he just shouts at passersby.” Tempest makes a tsk-ing sound.
“I suspect our journey doesn’t end in a courtyard,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as annoyed as I feel. It’s my fault we’re behind schedule in the first place, and everything feels like it takes twice as long when I have to be polite.
“Indeed not. Keep walking until you come to the other side. That’s the back end of Toad in the Hole. That’s the place for you to start. If Tara isn’t in, they’ll know where she is.”
Finally.
“You’ve been an amazing help.” Thea smiles at Tempest, leaving me mildly dazzled by the bright beauty of her expression.
When she bounces off, I do my best to keep up.
She follows the directions and indeed a sharp voice does scold us roundly when we cut through the courtyard. But Thea ignores Tempest’s instruction to disregard the chastisement. “Do you object to us using the shortcut because we’re tracking dirt? I can sweep if you like.”
A round creased face appears in the upper window, and then the brownie pops out onto the sloping roof, creeping toward us with a suspicious stare. He is small, even for a brownie, clad entirely in gray from head to toe. His eyes are narrowed, focused on Thea with a puzzlement bordering on outrage.
“Are you calling my courtyard dirty?” he demands.
“Not at all. I was just hoping to make you feel better about our passage.”
“That’s absurd,” Ragh says. “Nobody cares about my opinion. Haven’t for ages.”
“Well, they should.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Because everyone matters,” Thea replies.
The conviction in her voice pierces me like an arrow. I suddenly don’t care that we have little time to waste. She’s correct. I don’t know Ragh, but now this moment is critical to me as well. We should do what we can to make him feel less hostile.
“If you wanted me to feel better, you wouldn’t offer to do chores. You’d provide a tangible token of apology.”
Since I recently bought something that might suffice, I produce the glimmering rose quartz, so pretty and delicate, carved into an actual rose.
Fenstig has a talent that outshines my own, and I planned to study this piece at my leisure.
Then, if I felt brave enough, eventually, I might have given it to Thea as a gift.
But it can serve a higher purpose now, comforting a brownie who feels overlooked by the entire world.
“Would you like this?” I ask. “As a tribute of respect.”
Ragh scampers to the edge of the roof and peers down at the artist’s work in my hand. To my surprise, he presses a hand to his lips, eyes going wide and soft. “It looks like the last flower I had from Govannon. Before he went away to Autumn.”
“Then this was meant for you,” Thea says softly.
A sudden pang startles me; this isn’t like me, not at all. I surprise myself by asking for more information. “Who is Govannon? And what happened to him?”
“The love of my life. And I wish I knew. The uncertainty eats at me. He went to the Autumn lands to work, and he was supposed to send word when he had a place for us. But it’s been so long, and naught but silence.”
“Have you tried searching for him? By magic or otherwise?” Thea seems interested too, as we now have something in common with Ragh.
“I did. Nothing came of it. I can only conclude he doesn’t want to be found,” the brownie says in a sorrowful tone. “I wish he’d told me that he wanted us to end. I loved him enough to let him go for his sake. And for his happiness.”
“Take this as a memento of happier times,” I say then. I lift my arm, and with a burst of magic, I lend enough animus to the stone rose so that it pops from my palm to Ragh’s in a smooth motion.
The brownie holds fast to the gift, clutching it to his chest. “You don’t know what this means to me. I feel…tranquil? I’d nearly forgotten the word, let alone the sensation. Go in peace and with my blessings.”
If Thea nibbled at his anger, there might be tangible reasons for his improved mood. But it’s better that he ascribes it to the conversation and the gift. We cannot be discovered here. If we’re caught, they will execute me. But I care less about my own fate than what becomes of Thea.
She waves, unaware of my bleak thoughts, and continues toward the tavern with the brightness of her being burnished to an incredible sheen. When I view her aura, she’s shining silver from head to toe, so good that it hurts me to gaze upon her. I shift my attention to the back of the tavern.
Toad in the Hole is gray stone, braced with pale wood, whitewashed first, pastel hues painted on top.
Such gradient colors lend an enchanting effect, more like fish scales, or perhaps it’s meant to suggest an amphibian resemblance.
There are window boxes with flowers tumbling from them, trailing vines creeping to the eaves.
From within, I hear the sound of voices rising and falling in conversation.
The back door stands open, and she enters without hesitation.
It never seems to occur to her to wonder whether she should do something.
On my own, I would verify if this is a kitchen entrance, meant for staff.
I follow, feeling as though I’ve adopted the role of guardian, destined to fail at keeping Thea out of trouble.
We emerge in a kitchen with a huge scarred table, a variety of knives, and ingredients scattered about.
It smells of hops from the brewing beer and yeast, likely from the freshly baked bread cooling on the counter nearby.
If I’m not mistaken, I also detect mushroom stew, and I would love to try both.
Perhaps not right now.
Two surprised brownies turn to face us, one wearing a stained apron. The other holds a tray of drinks.
“You’re not supposed to be in here!” the apron-wearing one scolds.
Thea grins. “Then we’ll go out there.”
She breezes by before the encounter can escalate.
Past the rosy heat of the kitchen, the inside of Toad in the Hole is dark and cool.
In the common room, tables and chairs, stools and stumps are arranged haphazardly all around the space, furniture suitable to accommodate guests in all shapes and forms.
The bar is an enormous tree, carved to suit the shape of the space.
An artisan used magic to preserve the surface, enhancing it to a glorious sheen that highlights the pattern of the grain.
Based on the char marring the sides, I suspect it suffered a mishap in a sudden storm.
We try not to kill trees, but sometimes they expire, and we make use of the remains.
Some find fae woodwork grisly; others won’t even work in stone for similar reasons, though true stone spirits are few and far between.
And those that do remain are ancient, rarely stirring from their deep and ageless dreams.
A young hobgoblin with dark-green skin, light-brown hair, and radiant yellow eyes breaks into the widest smile imaginable when she spots Thea. “Is it really you?”
Thea yelps as they slam together in a vigorous embrace, but she holds on, beaming. “It is! I finally found you.”
“Didn’t even know you were searching,” the hobgoblin I presume is Taragon says. “Let me look at you.” She pauses. “I’d love to say you’re better than ever, but really, you could use a good washing up. Whatever have you been doing?”
“It’s a long story,” Thea tells her.
Taragon smiles, showing all her teeth. “An interesting one, I hope.”
“Definitely that.” She turns to me with a gesture. “This is Kerboros. He…” She hesitates, seeming unsure what to say.
I take solace in the fact that she’s not introducing me as Winter’s hound. “I am tasked with helping Thea,” I say simply.
“Taragon Toadpearl.” The hobgoblin greets me politely, adding, “It’s a pleasure.”
“I’m hoping to interest you in the quest as well. It’s juicy,” Thea adds.
“You have my attention. I gather you foresee needing my silver tongue?”
“That’s part of it,” Thea allows. “I do imagine we’ll need your talents before the journey is through. Are you in or are you in?”
Taragon laughs. “Have you forgotten that I was raised in a public house? Even from you, I would never accept the first offer. But let me get you both a drink while we talk. Negotiation is thirsty work.”
“Negotiation or reminiscence?” Thea asks with a smile.
A rather cunning look crosses Taragon’s face. “Can’t it be both?”
“It can! Of course it can.” Thea’s shoulders lower, tension releasing at Tara’s answer.
It seems that she might not have been certain that Taragon would be delighted about their reunion.
Since they were childhood friends, she might feel awkward about showing up suddenly and asking for a favor.
I’ve become rather experienced at gauging her moods, and right now, I believe she’s smiling with relief.
Thea adds, “Then I could use a drink. Do you have any cider?”
“Coming right up.” Taragon turns to me. “And what would you like?”
People rarely ask me this. “Honey wine, white blossom if you have it.”
“We certainly do,” Taragon replies. “Settle yourselves over there. I’ll join you in a jiffy.” She indicates a table at the back of the tavern.