Chapter 22
The revel had begun. At first, it was restrained.
Voices were low, movements careful. Long wooden tables were set along a stone lane between the cottages, piled with roasted fish, dark loaves of bread, and clay pitchers of ale.
Smoke from braziers curled into the salt-wet air, mingling with the scent of seaweed and brine.
The houses around them glowed with torchlight, their whitewashed stone walls and thatched roofs stark against the starry sky.
Ilys lingered near the edges, uncertain. She had never seen such a gathering. Neighbors greeting neighbors with claps on the shoulder, laughter easing into the night air. A fiddler sat on a low stoop, plucking a dilatory, lilting tune, his bow sliding gently across the strings.
Then the ale took hold.
The music quickened, the fiddle grew sharp, and the drumbeat deepened. Hands clapped, boots stamped, children wove through the crowd. Someone danced atop a table, skirts flying, drawing cheers from the circle around her. The narrow street rang with voices, laughter, and wild, salt-stained joy.
Ilys stayed back, watching.
“Could you be any more unwelcoming?”
She turned. Owin leaned against a cottage post, a cup dangling loosely in his hand, cheeks already flushed from drink. His grin was boyish, softened at the edges.
“What?” she asked.
“You stand like you’re waiting to be judged.” He squinted at her, head cocked. “Ramrod straight. Eyes too sharp. Makes folk uneasy.”
Her brows drew together. “This is how I stand.”
“Aye, and it’s eerie,” he said, laughing, tipping back his cup. “Like you see everything.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Your tongue is loose.”
“That’s what the ale’s for.” He bowed his head in mock gravity, then set his drink aside and, without warning, caught her wrist. “Come.”
Ilys stiffened. “Where?”
“To dance you.”
She frowned. “Dance me?”
“Dance with you,” he corrected, dismissing his own slip with a wave. “Come, come.”
Before she could argue, he tugged her into the crush of revelers. The music surged around them, fiddle shrieking, drum pounding. He spun her into the center, light and loose from drink.
“With the drums,” Owin urged, nodding to the beat.
Ilys tried, but her movements were stiff, each step inelegant.
“Not like a nun,” he teased, dodging her clumsy foot with a laugh. His hands shifted to her hips, coaxing. “Like this, you see?”
Heat rose to her face, but she followed, letting the drum carry her. Bit by bit, she yielded. Her body softened into the rhythm, her steps matched his. The world blurred into firelight and music.
Owin grinned. “There you go. Good girl.”
She shot him a sharp look, but the praise warmed her all the same.
The revel swelled to chaos—torches throwing sparks into the night, ale spilling from lifted cups, feet stomping hard against the stone. Owin twirled her, pulled her close, his touch easy but sure. She realized, to her surprise, she liked the way he touched her—without command, without demand.
Someone clapped Owin on the shoulder as they passed. “Who’s the girl?”
“A traveler,” Owin answered smoothly.
“Traveler from where?”
Owin gave an exaggerated shrug. “North.”
The man barked a laugh and stumbled off, losing interest. Owin only smirked, pulling Ilys back into the circle.
They danced until her head spun and the music seemed endless. Finally, Owin steered her aside, breathless with laughter. He poured more ale into her cup, topping his own, and leaned close to be heard above the noise.
“Are you nervous,” he slurred softly, “because it’s against the law?”
Ilys blinked. “What?”
“This.” He leaned in and pressed a soft, drunken kiss to her lips.
She froze. Her heart lurched. “Why would that be against the law?” she asked, awe-struck, dread prickling beneath her skin. Did he know she was a Veilwalker?
“Because you’re married.” Owin laughed in her ear, breath hot with ale.
Her expression steadied, the panic ebbing. He didn’t know, not truly.
He pulled back, wagging a finger at her. “I don’t really believe you’re married. When Kara asked about your ring, you were strange. All of you is strange.”
Before she could answer, his hands molded over her hips, drawing her closer. She had forgotten how much she loved to be touched. She was like a kitten preening for attention, starved for intimacy.
“I think you lied,” Owin murmured, a grin tugging at his mouth, “because women don’t travel alone.”
Her throat worked. “And if you’re right?”
His smile turned wicked. “If I’m right, then you should stay with me tonight, instead of my crotchety sister.”
He bent and pressed a soft kiss to her collarbone, his laughter rumbling low against her skin. The warmth of Owin’s breath lingered against her skin, but then, over his shoulder, she saw it.
Black. An ebony gilded cloak moving where no cloak should be, stark amidst the swirl of color and sweat. Her blood went cold.
Ilys pulled back from Owin sharply, his laughter still spilling against the din of the revel.
Her gaze fixed on the figure weaving through the throng, the dark hood dipping just out of sight.
She shoved past him, ignoring his startled protest, and pressed into the crush of bodies.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. It couldn’t be. Here?
The cloak slipped through the revelers with uncanny ease, swallowed and revealed again by the crowd’s shifting dance. Ilys strained after it, every muscle taut with urgency. Her satchel snagged on the corner of a table. The strap wrenched her shoulder back with a violent tug.
“Damn it—” She yanked at it, fingers scrabbling against the leather. The strap caught on a wooden mug, upending it, ale spilling down her side.
By the time she tore herself free, the figure had ducked behind a man hefting a cask on his shoulder, vanishing deeper into the press of people.
“Ilys!” Owin’s voice rang out above the revel. “Ilys, where are you going?”
The sound of her name froze her mid-step. Its timing was a curse.
The black cloak ahead of her turned. For the briefest moment, the crowd parted, and the torchlight struck the man’s face.
Lord Veylen.
Ilys’s breath caught like a knife in her throat. His Ebon Choir ring was absent, but she would know that cruel, elegant face anywhere.
The press of bodies swallowed him again. She shoved forward, only to collide with Owin.
He caught her arm, laughing. “Ilys, you dropped your satchel.”
Her stomach dropped. The satchel lay between them, its contents spilled in the dust.
Owin bent to gather them, still chuckling, until his hand closed on black fabric. He drew it free, the torchlight catching its folds.
Her veil.
The laughter drained from him, eyes widening and confusion clouding to a darker, heavier emotion. “Ilys,” he questioned, the name breaking in his throat. “Oh, Ilys…”
She froze, heart slamming, panic and fury crashing together. Behind him, the revel raged on, but all she saw was Veylen’s face vanishing into the crowd. Her quarry—her ruin—slipping away.
Owin’s voice grew cold, raw with disbelief. He pulled her dagger from the bag, its blade catching the light. He lifted it to her chin, pressing until the point nicked skin.
“Get on your knees, Veilwalker.”
The crowd roared with music and drink, blind to the truth unraveling in their midst. Ilys stood caught between two revelations—Veylen at the revel before her, and Owin, the man who had been soft and kind and drunk with laughter, now her captor.