Chapter 45
MYRA
A river of mud flooded the lower streets of the Frenzian capital as a storm rolled in. Myra tightened her cloak, pulling the hood down to shield her face from the pelting rain. The dirt pathway was slick, but they had no time to spare. They pressed on.
As they made their way closer to the castle, they spotted more guards patrolling the streets. And it seemed they were not the only ones who did not want to attract the guards’ attention. Most of the pedestrians who were out also kept their heads down as they passed the guards.
Myra hurried after Laurince, determined to keep up with his quick pace. As the clopping of hooves sounded behind them, Laurince pressed her against the wall with his arm. She tried to shove him off, but he only tightened his hold.
"Don’t move," he ordered.
Carefully, Myra peered around him and sucked in a sharp breath.
She flattened herself against the wall as much as she could when a horse-drawn carriage came her way.
The width of the wagon was just small enough to fit through the narrow street, but wide enough to leave little room for anything else.
She swallowed as the carriage crept forward.
The driver snapped the whip beside one horse’s ears. Instantly, the horses sped up, the carriage rattling over the stones behind them.
Myra squeezed her eyes shut as the horses darted past them. Hooves slapped against the puddles marring the streets, splashing water onto her cloak. Air whipped across face, and she made the wrong choice to open her eyes just as the carriage was less than a foot away from her face.
"Assholes," Laurince mumbled as the carriage passed. "They’re not supposed to be down this road."
They peeled themselves away from the wall. Myra pressed a hand to her chest as she took in her first full breath.
Laurince grabbed her by the shoulders and knelt down to peek through the lip of her hood. "Are you hurt?"
Myra shook her head. Her hands trembled, and she shoved them deep into her pockets.
Laurince, of course, had already noticed them. He squeezed her shoulder. "We’re almost there."
"This is ridiculous," Rian hissed, wiping the mud from his soaked cloak.
"A little mud won’t hurt you," Laurince said, rolling his eyes.
"I’m not talking about the mud!" Rian spat. He waved his hand in the air. "I’m talking about this entire thing."
A few patrons walking on the opposite side of the street turned in their direction.
Laurince quickly stepped in between them and Rian, blocking their view of him. "I already told you," he whispered, leaning forward, "we can’t go barging in. It’s not smart."
"Smart? It’s my—"
Laurince snatched Rian by the collar and dragged him down the street toward a nearby alley. As he was about to turn down the alley, he tore a poster from a shop window and glanced at Myra, brow raised in question.
Myra halted in her tracks and nodded, letting the two men slip into the alley as she waited at the corner.
In her periphery, she saw Laurince shove Rian in the shoulder.
A slew of hushed words spilled from the captain’s mouth, the spoken words mere white noise under the cover of the rain.
Taking a deep breath, she peered into the window of the nearest shop, but she barely paid any attention to the trinkets on display.
Her attention was fixed on the posters plastered to the window.
Someone had drawn a rough sketch of a man with a sharp chin and thick eyebrows.
In another poster, a young woman with an oval face and high cheekbones stared back at her.
Their likeness to Rian and Kallie was uncanny.
Heart pounding, she forced herself to refocus on the task at hand. She scanned the faces that walked by, their reflections faint in the mirror. Her gift hummed inside her, waiting.
She recalled what Laurince had said by the river. Her power was not evil, nor was it only a tool for her to use to betray her friends. It was hers, and no one else’s.
As the occasional curious eye dipped toward the alley, she snatched the threads, feeding notes of indifference down them. One by one, the people walked away.
With each person she successfully turned away, the guilt lessened. It might have been a violation, but it would not harm them. If anything, using her gift would prevent a brawl from breaking out if a guard correctly identified Rian.
Nightfall was less than an hour away, and the overcast sky blanketed the capital in shadows. When a swift breeze blew in and nipped at her fingertips, Myra buried her hands deep into the pockets of her trousers beneath her cloak.
When Laurince returned with Rian on his heels, she asked cautiously, "Everything all right?"
Rian muttered something unintelligible, tugging the cloak further down his face. The heavy fabric spread shadows across his features. His hair might still have been black, but there were more people who would recognize him in the capital, especially with his face plastered on every corner.
"We’re good. The place is just around the corner," Laurince said, sweeping past Myra. But before he passed her completely, he squeezed her hand. The touch wasn’t long or drawn out.
It was quick. A mere pulse. But it was his way of saying it was going to be fine.
Laurince might not have been able to read emotions like she could, but he had learned to read her tells quickly.
Turning around the next corner, Laurince halted in front of a building. The sign hanging from the post above the door was worn from time. Squinting at the etched markings where the ink had long-since faded, Myra read the words scrawled across the wood: The Drunken Dragon.
Myra tugged on Laurince’s arm, stopping him from reaching for the door handle. "I thought we were done with taverns?"
"Don’t worry. We’re not staying long. I know the owners. We’ll be safe here."
She peered at the tavern’s opaque windows that were crusted with dirt.
She could barely see through them to make out the oil lamps hanging from the ceiling.
The faces of the patrons inside were a blur, their silhouettes masked in heavy shadows.
She looked over her shoulder at the guests walking down the other side of the street.
Further away, a guard surveyed the area, his fingers tapping along the hilt of his longsword that sat at his hip.
"Do you trust me, Haze?" Laurince asked, holding out a hand.
Without hesitation, she grabbed it.
As the door clattered shut behind them, a strike of lightning burst across the sky. Thunder rumbled and sent Myra bumping into Laurince. Several patrons looked over at them, and Rian stared at the ground as he strolled inside behind them.
"Sorry," Myra mumbled to Laurince.
"I thought we were done apologizing for silly things?" Laurince quipped.
Myra’s lips parted. But before she could respond, he snatched her hand in his.
"Come on. Let’s grab a table. I told him to be on time in my letter, not a minute late." Laurince led them through the tavern.
Only a few oil lamps hanging from the ceilings lit the space, casting dark shadows across the patrons.
There was no music or dancing in the half-occupied tavern.
They easily snagged an empty table in the back.
Laurince pulled out a seat for her, and Myra quickly took it. Laurince took the seat next to her.
Sitting across from them and away from the rest of the patrons, Rian folded his arms on the table and tapped his fingers along the surface.
At a nearby table, a server poured ale into a glass. Once he finished, he turned around to head toward them. When he took them in, he stumbled, ale sloshing over the rim of the pitcher. Laurince went rigid beside her as the server hurried over to them.
"You shouldn’t be here," the stranger hissed, glaring at Laurince. The man glanced at Myra and then at Rian. He did a double-take at the king. Rian offered him a tight smile.
Laurince slapped the server on the arm as he went to bow. "Not now," he demanded.
"I told you not to do that anyway, Han," Rian added.
Myra’s gaze bounced between the men, trying to figure out their relationship to one another. In the dim lighting, it was hard to get a good look at Han’s features, but there was something familiar about him she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
"We wouldn’t have come if we had any other choice," Laurince said, calling Han’s attention away from Rian.
"We’ve all been worried sick about you," Han said, setting the pitcher on the table.
"They can’t know," Laurince urged. "Not yet."
"Not yet? What do you mean not—"
"Cousin, please."
"Cousin?" Myra sputtered. She surveyed the man again and nearly gasped.
She should have realized it sooner. Laurince and Han shared many of the same features.
Their jawlines and dark eyes were clearly a familial trait.
Unlike Laurince, though, Han had a dark mustache and a small beard.
He appeared to be around the same age as Laurince and Rian, maybe a little older.
Han held out a hand. "Name’s Han, and you are…?"
"Myra," she answered, taking his hand.
He offered her a small smile.
"We won’t be here long," Laurince explained. "We only needed a place to meet someone, and this was the safest place I could think of."
The muscles in Han’s jaw ticked. "If your mother finds out you were here and no one told her, she’ll be—"
"Pissed, I know."
"Pissed? She’ll cut my fuckin’ head off."
"She can’t know, Han. Not yet. We have to…" Laurince swallowed and rubbed a hand across his face.
"I’m sure I can guess what it is," Han said, eyeing Rian. "Since you’ve left, things have been different around here."
An eerie prickle ran down the back of Myra’s neck, and she straightened, looking around them. A few of the patrons were getting curious. Her gift stirred in the pit of her stomach, but before reaching for the threads, she nudged Laurince. "Order something."
"What?" he asked, blinking down at her, confused.
Rolling her eyes, she said to Han, "Three ales, please."
"But—" Han began before Laurince cut him off.
"You heard the lady. Three ales," he said, finally noticing the curious faces turning toward them. "Actually, make it four."
Han bit down. "Fine," he gritted out. "We’re not done here, though." He turned around and walked away.
As Han weaved through the tables and stopped to refill a few empty glasses, Rian leaned forward. "How long are we going to wait?"
"Just a couple more—"
The bell above the door rang. All three of them turned toward it.
Beneath the ringing bell walked a broad-chested man walking inside, his head swiveling over the crowd.
His hair was cut short, nearly to the scalp.
Myra’s mouth grew dry as she instantly recognized the newcomer.
He might not have been wearing armor, but she knew without a doubt that he was a guard. And he was bee-lining it toward them.
She gripped Laurince’s arm, her fingers digging into the muscle as fear wrapped around her throat. "Laurince—"
"He’s here."