Chapter 18
After sleeping on what some might call a lumpy mattress – I prefer to call it well-loved – and opening the curtains to take in the light of the rising sun, I have decided to ignore the anxiety making my stomach twist more than any vein of magic, and chosen to focus on the positive: I have the first item. I’m alive.
I can do this.
I have to do this. I’ll get the cure without hurting anyone else, take the cure to prove I don’t care about power like the rest of them, convince Damian to give me the reward regardless of what potion I hand him, and then maybe, just maybe, Astin will forgive me for the lies.
Humming a tune, I dress in my usual pink blouse and skirt – as was made evident with Nuri last night, it’ll be easier to blend in with the other festivalgoers this way.
I’ll hide in plain sight, and everything will be fine.
I do slip my cloak on though, hiding my hair beneath my hood, before heading downstairs.
I leave a note in the guestbook about what a lovely stay I’ve had and hang the key in its slot, slipping out before anyone spots me.
Dew hangs in the air, glistening over lamp posts and the Laevothe banners hanging limply over the street, rainwater dripping from the garlands.
Market stalls have opened for the day, undeterred by the events of last night. Maybe because of them. There’s a frenzied look in the eyes of every seller as they wave their wares at me, proclaiming loudly that I need their protection.
I grit my teeth. No amount of love hearts or lust powder saved us yesterday.
Maybe instead humans should stop trying to repulse Souleaters, then they’d stop trying to attack us.
I press my hand against the package in my pocket, wishing once again that it could be proof that things weren’t always like this, that Ozias had indeed found a way to make something good and, more than that, he gave it to the king. A human.
After dodging the market stalls – along with a florist on the opposite side of the street who screams at me that death is imminent for anyone who doesn’t buy a bunch of roses – I continue down the road, keeping an eye out for wardens, and, if I’m honest, Astin. Just in case he changed his mind.
But as I see unfamiliar face after unfamiliar face, that hope diminishes. He’ll be halfway to Shiverholde by now. By the time I’m home, he’ll have cleared his things from the inn, and I’ll never see him again, never get a chance to prove him wrong about me.
I halt when the park comes into view. My feet have brought me back of their own accord, and the hedges of the maze rise up, dark against the sky. No pink dust spurts from the centre today. My legs tremble.
I shouldn’t be here. Then again, I have no idea where I should be, because I don’t know where to look for the next item, and my delusions of being able to sniff them out were just that.
Delusions. I curse Damian for not providing better clues, and am debating returning to the ruins in case there’s anything buried there, when I spot a lone figure standing by the railings surrounding the park, instantly recognisable by his cloak.
I’m about to march over to him and demand he be more helpful, but, with a wince, I remember the slight mishap I had in Eira’s tent.
Accidentally revealing Damian was looking for the cure.
I’ve been so hung up on what happened in the maze, I’d forgotten, until now.
For all I know, there could be some Souleater network I’m not a part of, and Eira felt obliged to protect her own.
Maybe she lied when she said Damian’s happiness was important, and last night’s attack was a direct result of her immediately telling that Souleater what she knew.
Shit. Shit. This could be more my fault than I realised.
Damian straightens as I approach on shaky legs, apparently assessing me for damage, because the first thing he says is, ‘You’re unharmed. Good.’
‘You heard what happened?’
‘I did.’ His gloves curl around the railings, as though he’s imagining them around the neck of the Souleater who did this to us. ‘I arrived back from the ruins this morning, and it’s all anyone is talking about. Were you there? None of the stories are clear, just that a Souleater was involved.’
‘I . . . was,’ I say carefully. ‘I didn’t see much.
I blacked out when it was all going on.’ It’s not a complete lie.
The moment where I hexed that girl is a blur of power and fear.
‘The wraiths looked familiar though. I think they might have belonged to the Souleater who hexed us. You said they were in Rerta, right? I –’
‘It wouldn’t have been them,’ he cuts me off. ‘They’d have no reason to.’
‘A lack of reason hasn’t stopped them before,’ I remind him, tapping a knuckle against his glove, before shifting from one foot to the other. ‘And what if . . . someone gave them a reason?’
He frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
I hesitate. I’m supposed to be keeping Eira’s attendance at the festival a secret, but I can’t not tell him she knows his plans. Hexes. Everything I say or do drives them further apart, like there’s no fixing something between a Souleater and a person who hates them.
Taking a deep breath, I say, ‘I might have . . . seen Eira yesterday. And I might have . . . maybe . . . told her what your party was really for.’
If it’s possible, his face turns paler, save for the spark of anger blazing in his gaze.
‘You did what?’ He takes a step towards me, but is interrupted by a boy calling out nearby, waving a copy of a newspaper over his head and yelling about yesterday’s attack. More copies bulge out of the satchel strapped around his torso.
‘Paper, miss?’ the boy says, before double-taking at the sight of Damian. His eyes immediately go to the gloves and he snickers. ‘Oh, look. It’s Deadbeat Damian.’
If I thought Damian was angry with me and my big mouth, it’s nothing compared to how he reacts to the boy.
I half expect him to rip off a glove and turn him into emerald in the middle of the street.
His cheeks are blotchy and red, hatred radiating from his pores, but only a few seconds and a shake of his head later, he’s cool once more, expression nothing but stone.
Ignoring the boy, he takes my hand. ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet to talk. ’
His glove is smooth and all too cool against my skin, reminding me of how much warmer Astin felt against me last night. I blink back tears. I don’t want cold. I want heat. I want calloused fingers and hot breath and a touch that makes my belly flutter.
Instead, I’m steered across the street and into the nearest building, a small bakery filled with the scent of fresh bread warming over an open fire.
The owner, a tiny man with a very large hat, jumps at the sight of us.
His expression is not dissimilar to the boy’s when he takes in Damian’s presence, but rather than offer up insults, he swallows and ushers us into a back room.
Bags of flour line the walls, one of which has split, coating a table shoved into the corner with white powder. The man sweeps it away as best he can before we take a seat around it.
Once he’s disappeared into the front of the shop, I ask, ‘Do you know him?’
‘I own this place.’ Damian brushes flour from his sleeves. ‘Another perk of my . . . affliction. I own the majority of businesses across Rerta.’
The question of why forms soundlessly on my lips.
Each to their own, I suppose, but I can barely handle the one inn.
It seems rude to ask, but Damian must sense my wonder, because he continues, ‘My father came from money. At some point he decided gambling away our fortune was more important than caring for his family or any of the businesses he owned across the city. He lost them all in the end. I grew up with nothing, in a hovel around the corner from here. Went to school in second-hand clothing and returned home to parents who were asleep at the table, bottles in their hands. I’d hide upstairs while debt collectors hammered on our door. ’
Sounds familiar. My hand twitches with the urge to take his, but I get the impression he wouldn’t accept my comfort or pity.
‘After Father’s debts and poor investments caused the closure of Rerta’s most prominent mill, the workers never forgave him for it, and I had the misfortune of looking like him.
They said I’d turn out the same. Deadbeat Damian.
When I was old enough, I considered leaving the city – some would say I should have left the city – but a fresh start wouldn’t take away the memories of their faces when they look at me.
Wouldn’t change the way Deadbeat Damian rings in my ears when I lie in bed at night, all because they can’t forget where I came from. ’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. It’s another thing we have in common. Me, tainted by the deeds of Souleaters past, and him, by his family. ‘They should have seen you as your own person.’
‘Perhaps, one day, I will do something so unforgettable that they will.’ He drums his gloves on the table.
‘I thought having wealth again would finally be enough to prove them wrong. I bought half the city to prove I could. That I wasn’t some penniless drunk rolling around a gambling hall.
They still turn their noses up. They’ll accept my money, and mock me a moment later.
Thanks to the gloves, all they see is a pauper pretending to be something he’s not. ’
‘Is that why you’re calling yourself the Emerald King? To make them believe otherwise?’
He snorts. ‘For all the good it does. Even the people at the party, those who weren’t from Rerta, are obsessed with the gloves. I’m nothing but a novelty. I have to do more. Be more.’
‘But how –’
The baker cuts me off by reappearing with a couple of cloth napkins and a tray of pastries. I take one, needing to have something to crush between my fingers more than anything. A small bite tells me it’s dry and flavourless; nothing like the flaky, buttery goodness Astin bakes at the inn.