Chapter 12 Tegwyn
Tegwyn
The pub patrons do not look pleased as I cast my gaze around, spying several faeries—a hook-nosed goblin and a withered hag covered in warts.
A giant, his bulbous head nearly reaching the rafters, grits his underbite with a vicious snarl, while a pair of seedy-looking trolls show me their middle fingers.
Rather rude, if you ask me. Yet, the worst scowl comes from the ogre behind the bar.
They may be rough around the edges, but the folk here are decent enough—when they’re not tearing each other limb from limb, that is.
They’re Rogue Fae, and like me, they live life on a knife’s edge.
They also despise humans, mostly because humans have been persecuting them for the last hundred years.
However, they won’t touch my little pet. Not while she’s with me.
Besides, she needed to get out of the mountain; it can’t be good for her to be cooped up inside a cave all day.
I lean in, whispering, “Stay close to me.”
“Oh, I plan to,” she mutters, hiding behind me like I’m the only thing in this world that could save her from these monsters.
We meander through the bar, and the whole time she keeps her head bowed, shoulders hunched, until we stop at a sticky table.
I place her in a seat, and she stares absentmindedly at a toadstool sprouting from a crack inside the rotten wood.
As I said, it’s a rough establishment.
A snail leaves a silvery trail at the back of Ivy’s chair, and I roll my eyes. “I’ll be back in a moment. Just heading to the bar.”
She whips her head around, gripping my wrist. “You’re not leaving me here, are you?”
A lump catches in my throat when I meet the desperate gleam in her starburst eyes. Maybe bringing her here was a mistake. These Fae would wear her skin like a coat.
“I won’t be too long. Just remember what I said—avoid eye contact. By the way, happy birthday. This was the surprise!”
The human female gawks at me, speechless. I try for what I hope is an encouraging smile, but she only looks even more confused.
“Oh. Thank you...”
I chuckle. “Remember, faeries may not be able to tell a lie, but they still have silver tongues. So, don’t go unintentionally accepting any more bargains, princess. If it sounds too good to be true, then it probably is.”
Definitely the wrong thing to say.
She scowls, and it looks as if my attempt to make light of our bargain just blew up in my face. Well, you can’t win them all.
With a nervous sound, I hurry to the bar, hoping she has the sense not to talk to any of these creatures. They really will eat her.
I tug my hood over my face as I wade through a crowd of angry patrons. They hiss and jeer—so much for making more friends.
“Traitor,” a hob seethes.
“Dung-fucker,” snarls a winged puca, spitting at my boots.
A cloud of wisps swarms me, sticking out their long tongues, and I waft them away, eager to get to the bar.
Finally, I reach the bar and pull up a stool. Stannog, the sour-faced barkeep, pays me no heed. Instead, he towels a drinking horn made from mammoth’s tusk, pretending he hasn’t seen me.
I cough to get his attention.
The ogre grits his crooked teeth, almost cracking the prehistoric ivory in his meaty hand. “What the hell d’ya bloody want, dung?”
A wry smile bites at the corners of my lips. “And a hello to you too, Stan.”
“Go away. Ye stink of dung…”
Dung meaning human, of course.
All the Fae likens humans to heaps of manure, yet Ivy is different. She smells like honeysuckle and freshly baked biscuits straight out of the oven.
I drum my fingers noisily on the chipped countertop. “I do have a name, you know.”
He crushes the horn, and the bone-white ivory turns to dust in his fingers.
Next: my skull.
“Well, it’s more satisfyin’ to address ye as dung. So, what’ll it be, dung?”
I heave a breath. “Two tankards of that disgusting gnat’s piss you call ale—and a favour…”
The barkeep plods towards an oversized keg, slamming a hand onto the tap. He pours a black, frothy substance the consistency of tar into two tankards.
Stannog says over his shoulder, “Ye know, I don’t bargain with the likes of ye, right, dung?”
“Well, that's a crying shame. I was really hoping you would be interested in bartering with this golden dagger. Forged at the Gilded Rose Court.”
One of the most prestigious Seelie courts in the faerielands—close to the Pool of Light, the birthplace of all Fae magic.
That makes this dagger one of the most valuable objects in this bar right now—or so it appears. In reality, it’s just an ordinary bronze butter knife.
It’s enchanted with a cloaking spell to make it resemble gold, complete with a fake Gilded Rose Crest on the hilt.
Stannog practically drools when I set the dagger on the sticky bar. Looks like he’s taken the bait. He’s barely got any magic left in his old bones these days, so he fails to spy that the dagger is, in fact, a fake.
The ogre leans over the bar, showing me his magnificent yellow teeth. “Fine. I’ll take the damned blade.”
I give a charming smile of my own, reaching my hand out to officiate our bargain, and the air ripples the moment his large hand swallows mine.
Once our deal is made, he slams the tankards onto the bar, and his gnat’s piss soils my favourite cloak.
That’ll leave a stubborn stain.
“So, what favour can I grant ye, dung?”
My eye twitches. That’s the fifth time he has called me by that insipid name. “I need you to get me an appointment with your cousin. There’s a waiting list, and I know you can help me jump it.”
He wipes the bar with a dirty rag. “Finally decided to give up being Rogue and live among the humans, have ye?”
A susurration of disgruntled faerie voices echoes through the tavern like a cursed song, and that’s when all eyes fall on me. My ears burn at the tips.
Most of the Rogue in this bar don’t believe in glamours or cloaking spells. They choose to live a modest life along the fringes of the human realm like vagrants or vagabonds.
Most of them have no choice. Most are dirt poor where their magic is concerned—so poor that they can barely maintain a glamour long enough to deceive even the most gullible of humans.
That’s why I resorted to thievery and trickery. It was better than being persecuted—better than living in rags.
But Bannog’s glamours are permanent.
There are some who consider him blessed by the goddess, and others who think him cursed. It just depends on who you ask.
My eyes fall on Ivy. She’s still hiding beneath her hood, but she sticks out like a sore thumb in that damask-blue cloak.
Several Fae eye her viciously, and from the way she hunches her shoulders, she couldn’t be anything but human. Gracefully awkward, like a budding rose yet to bloom…
She plays with a strand of her golden hair, and even from the bar, I catch those gilded strands glinting beneath the hushed lights of the tavern.
The patrons keep a wide berth for now, and good. Ivy is my ward. We made a bargain the day she gave me her necklace, and that includes my protection, too.
Sometimes I just wish I knew what was going on inside that pretty blonde head of hers.
She truly is an enigma.
What circumstances brought her north? And what reason does she have to be so afraid of soldiers?
She catches my gaze, pleading with me to return to the table with those big eyes, and my heart skips a beat.
I hold up five fingers, turning back to Stannog. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, I require a glamour.”
Stannog shrugs his broad shoulders. “So, just make yer own glamour, then.”
A low growl emits from my lips. “You and I both know that isn’t an option. Glamours require too much magic, and I need to conserve mine.”
It seems I finally got through to the ogre. It’s been years since he so much as stepped a toe into the human world. So, he forgets how rough it can be at times.
These pocket worlds are all we have left—forgotten fragments of the faerielands. They’re islands, basically, the human world our wild, treacherous sea.
And that is why I need to secure safe passage aboard a ship.
I drum my fingers on the counter again. “So, will you speak to your cousin?”
The barkeep grunts, wiping at the same stubborn stain. “I’ll have ter think about it.”
Well, there’s no point in sticking around. Time to return to my human ward.
Before I leave, Stannog grabs the dagger, skewering me to the sticky counter by the sleeve of my coat. I meet his bloodshot eyes. “What?”
He shows me his lovely teeth again. “The ale isn’t free. Pay up.”
I chuckle, trying to play it off, yet Stannog isn’t messing around. He digs the knife in deeper, twisting it into the wood, and I roll my eyes. “Put it on my tab.”
He growls, hovering inches from my face. “That tab has already reached its limit. Pay. Up.”
I charm him with a debonair smile, hoping he takes the bait. I even throw in a fang for good measure. “For the two tankards, or the last six months?”
“Both,” he decides.
Well, looks like he got me. So, I reach down, pulling out a leather pouch that I keep inside my pants.
The ogre doesn’t even look the least perturbed that I just plucked a pouch of gold from my ass.
No. All he wants is his money.
When he gets his payment, he pulls the knife from my sleeve, and when I spy the tear in the leather, I tsk. “This was my best coat.”
“Get lost!”
Finally, I move towards Ivy, but then I stop, having yet another brilliant idea.
Stannog curses when I return to the bar, and someone’s certainly very cranky. “I thought I told ye ter get lost!”
I purse my lips. “You know, you really ought to brush up on those customer service skills, Stan. As a punter, I don’t feel valued.”
His eyes pop menacingly. Not a fan of sarcasm, I see.
I extend a finger at Ivy. “See that female there?”
The ogre follows the direction of my finger, a deep growl thundering in his chest. “Yes. What were ye thinking, bringing the likes of her here? Ye may as well just serve her up on a platter and be done with it. These bastards are lethal.” He tips his head at the bar patrons.