Chapter 8
Given this detour is my fault, I go to great lengths not to complain about our choice of accommodation.
This is made easier by the fact that, actually, with all the hopping I’m doing, it’s hard to talk about anything.
Every breath is strained. If it weren’t for the delay in reaching Rerta, I imagine Astin would be relishing the silence my injury has caused.
This is the longest I’ve gone without complimenting the colour of the sky.
I wish that was only down to the pain. It’s hard to compliment anything when we’ve left a dead body behind. Astin refused to waste time burying the corpse, forcing me to settle for laying a flower at his side.
We approach the Duck in the Dark to find it’s far uglier than our inn.
Bird faeces is speckled across a path lined by a rickety fence, no welcoming plants in sight.
Flaming torches hang either side of double doors coated with black paint, giving the appearance of a building preparing for war, not to welcome new guests.
A large pond occupies its front garden. Algae floats on top of the stagnant, murky water, and beside the shore sits – I shudder – a flock of ducks.
Why are there so many of them? All they do is make strange noises and leave a trail of feathers and excrement in their wake. One quacks before zooming over the pond’s surface. I whimper and shuffle closer into Astin’s embrace, knocking him sideways.
‘What are you –’ He breaks off, looking over at the pond. ‘I thought it was chickens you didn’t like?’
‘It’s all of them,’ I hiss. ‘Every single bird with their flappy, flap, flap wings.’
‘That’s the official term for them, is it?’
I prod his side and am pleased to discover he’s ticklish. I’m less pleased that, after jumping several inches into the air, he jerks away from me in retribution, leaving me to hobble the final few steps alone.
We have to fight our way inside, pushing through a group of travellers to cross the threshold where we’re immediately met with a blaze of unbearable heat and too many people for my liking. Astin draws me into his side, away from the elbows of a man who should’ve gone to bed several drinks ago.
The Duck in the Dark is situated on the crossroads where the intersections between Shiverholde, Rerta and Dordam meet, so it’s to be expected they’d have more guests than we do, but at this point, it’s just greedy.
And the smell. The emotions of every person in this place slosh with ale, like they’ve been dipped inside a brewery.
The flip side to their inebriation is their feelings are too unstable for me to lose control.
A good thing too, because this isn’t the typical merry intoxication I sense during the Laevothe festival.
It’s got more edge to it. The chatter in the room dims as we enter, and the attention of every person in this place falls on us.
Sizing us up. Two men and a woman sit in the far corner, and one of the men drags a knife along the table, wood spraying around the blade, before taking a swig of his tankard and meeting my gaze.
I don’t need to smell his emotions to discern the intent in that stare.
He’s all bloodlust and death, and I crush myself against Astin as though I can disappear within his jacket, focusing my attention on a tapestry hanging across the far wall.
It depicts the days around Ozias’s demise: Souleaters cloaked in shadows while humans lie hexed on the floor.
People pleading with our final king to do something about the ever-frequent attacks, and their fury at his refusal.
Clarabelle standing over Ozias’s dead body, ushering in a new age where they no longer have to live in fear of magic.
The black and red stitching is juxtaposed by the Laevothe banners draped from the wooden beams of the ceiling, but no love hearts are enough to distract from the bloody images they frame.
And they’re not enough to distract me from the way the man with the knife is still staring.
I feel his attention like a burn, and I try to act unintimidated.
The noise levels have increased around us, presumably because the rest of the inn’s patrons have finished their inspection of me and Astin and deemed us of no consequence, but this knife-wielder refuses to follow suit.
His companions eye him distrustfully, but make no attempt to move away, as though keeping him close will allow them to see the knife coming.
‘Would avoid them, if I were you,’ someone slurs into my ear. I turn to find the man who couldn’t control his elbows standing close by, his cheeks ruddy beneath a thick black beard. ‘Team up with me, instead.’
‘Team up?’ I blink at him.
‘You’re on your way to the competition, aren’t you?
S’what everyone’s here for. Well, except her.
’ He points at a lady with grey streaks in her hair, who is moving between the tables, showing the occupants a piece of parchment, her shoulders sinking further when she gets a shake of a head in response.
‘Anyway. How about it? Double the chance of winning, split the reward.’
‘I –’ Oh, shit, is that what everyone’s doing?
I glance around and realise nobody looks comfortable, clustered in tense groups while offering furtive glances at their neighbouring table, assessing the competition.
I make out low murmurs like, I reckon I could take that one in a fight and, My mother taught me how to boil poison. ‘I’m not sure if . . .’
How can I get out of this? I shouldn’t want to get out of this. He’s right, allies would help better our odds of success, but it also increases the likelihood I won’t be able to take the cure for myself if one of them spots what I’m doing.
Astin tightens his grip on me. ‘We’ll go alone, but thanks.’
The man huffs, attempting to return to his drink, but spilling a vast portion on my boots.
I can’t bring myself to react. For once, Astin’s intense dislike – or mistrust – of other people is a useful trait, but it doesn’t quell my unease entirely.
Not when that man in the corner keeps his eyes locked on me, like he thinks I’m easy prey.
Like he’s aware I’ve got no chance of beating him and his allies.
Hope is a rope unspooling in my palms, and I can’t cling to it hard enough before it tumbles from my grasp. I’m not just relying on the cure and the reward being real, but on being smarter, faster, better than everybody else in this room.
Deadlier, even.
Before panic takes hold, the woman with the grey hair approaches us and waves her parchment in front of my nose. ‘Have you seen this girl?’
It’s a grainy drawing of a girl with a toothy smile. I think it might be the same picture as the one on the missing person poster near my parents’ apothecary. ‘Sorry, I haven’t.’
The paper is pulled away. There’s a crease in the woman’s brow, etched so deep it may be permanent. ‘My daughter,’ she explains, voice wobbling. ‘Yvette. She’s missing.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. Brightly, I add, ‘Maybe she ran away for the festival. Does she have a forbidden love? Maybe they went to Rerta to . . .’
I trail off when I catch the horror on her face. I fear I may have added another worry line to her forehead.
Honestly. There are worse things in life than an elopement. And wouldn’t it be romantic, if that is what’s happened? Two people so overcome with love they’ve no choice but to –
‘We’ll keep a lookout for her.’ Astin’s voice interrupts my musings. ‘But we need to be on our way.’ Into my ear, he murmurs, ‘Or maybe she’s also lying dead in the woods somewhere. We know there’s a Souleater close by. Now come on, before another idiot tries to accost us . . .’
‘Do you have to be so negative all the time?’ I ask as he pushes me in the direction of the bar. We reach it without being propositioned again, and I wedge myself between the counter and the wall for support.
‘There’s a dead body in the woods, killed by a Souleater, and you think a missing girl is off having a nice time?’ He signals for the barkeep’s attention while pulling a small bundle of coins from his pocket. Hexes. Solving my money mess somehow involves him spending his own.
‘I’m saying she could be,’ I mumble, although his logic – and the fact I’m about to become further indebted to him – has knocked some of my confidence.
The barkeep’s arrival spares me any further argument.
‘We need two rooms for the night,’ Astin says. ‘Cheapest you have.’
‘Only one left, I’m afraid.’ The man gestures at a solitary key hanging at the back of the bar. ‘Take it or leave it.’
Please. He wants to use my own methods against me? I elbow Astin out the way so I can negotiate this fool into releasing whatever key he’s hidden. ‘I’m afraid that trick won’t work. I know there’s another room.’
I try not to give much thought to the fact he’s – mistakenly – under the impression me and Astin need some kind of assistance getting closer. It should be clear from the sag in Astin’s shoulders this is the last thing he wants.
The barkeep furrows his brow. ‘There’s no second room,’ he insists. ‘You’re lucky to get this one. Busiest night I’ve had in years. Everyone’s heading to Rerta for the festival and this contest.’
Well, bully for him. I’d take half this number of patrons and consider it a success. I’m also growing increasingly concerned he’s not lying, which means . . .
Astin stretches out a hand. ‘Give us the key.’
Oh no. No, no, no. I nudge his side. We can’t share a room.
He’s seen what happens when people do. Even when they’re convinced there’s nothing between them, there’s something about the magic of sharing a bed that changes everything.
I can’t let it change us. A hot flush sweeps over my body.
Hexes, I’m not sure how to stop this. We’re going to get into bed and fall in love and he’s going to kiss me and I’m going to kill him and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. It’s the rule.