Chapter 3 #2
The first bite was ambrosial. The bread was dense and slightly sour, worlds away from the light, flavorless manchets served at Polan’s table.
This was real, substantial, tasting of the earth and the baker’s hearth.
She paired it with a sliver of the salty cheese that melted on her tongue, a potent burst of flavor that felt like waking from a long, tasteless dream.
Each bite was a conscious act of reclamation.
Polan’s meals had been exquisite poisons, each course served with a side of silent judgment and the ever-present threat of his displeasure.
Fear had turned the finest food into boiled leather.
This humble fare, bought with the price of her escape and eaten in the dirt, was the most satisfying meal of her life.
The leathery sweetness of a dried apple finished it, and the feeling of true sustenance spreading through her—a slow, deep warmth in the pit of her stomach—was a profound comfort.
Needing information, she made her way back to The Dancing Stallion.
The common room was a dim, noisy cavern, crowded with rough men nursing their tankards.
Heavy oak benches cluttered the space, the floor hidden beneath a fresh, crunching layer of pine sawdust. The air hung thick with the yeasty punch of strong ale and the waxen scent of melting candles.
Gessa kept her hood pulled low to shadow her face, hands tucked into the sleeves of her new cloak. She bought a cup of watery, bitter ale she had no intention of finishing—the price for lingering near the hearth. She chose a shadowed bench, her back to the wall, and listened.
Men spoke of a dispute over straying sheep, the poor quality of the southern roads, and the inflated price of iron tools. Nearby, a portly man in a merchant’s vest slammed his tankard down, foam sloshing over the rim.
“They have us trapped,” he grumbled to his companion. “I pay the Iron Road a fortune to haul the wool because the bandits won’t touch their wagons. Then I have to pay a Wayfinder a king’s ransom to run the bill of sale just to ensure the market price holds.”
His companion agreed. “Two hands of the same greedy giant. One holds the road, the other holds the magic. Neutrality, they call it. I call it a stranglehold. We just pay the toll.”
“We pay the toll,” the older merchant grunted into his ale, “because the alternative is war. Think about it. If the High King of Pelagorn seized the Ley Lines, he’d starve Ghyllfast in a month.
The Spurs keep the peace by keeping the roads open to everyone, regardless of whose flag flies on the castle walls.
We pay them so they’re the only ones holding the knife. ”
The conversation shifted to local poaching, but Gessa had heard enough. The Spurs were the safe option—the expensive, tracked, official option. She couldn’t use them. She needed the margins.
She nursed her ale as long as she dared, then sought out the ostler she’d spotted earlier—a younger, more talkative version of the stablemaster.
She pressed a small coin into his calloused, dirt-ingrained palm.
He confirmed a small merchant caravan, two wagons laden with local pottery and hides, was due to leave for the larger town of Three Streams at first light.
Gessa found the caravan master in the inn’s outer yard. Jorne was a mountain of a man with a thick, greying beard and eyes that had seen enough of the road to trust nothing on it. He stood by the rear wheel of a mud-spattered wagon, shouting orders at two lads strapping down a tarp.
Gessa waited until the boys scrambled away before stepping into the lantern light.
“Master Jorne?”
He turned, wiping grease from his hands onto a rag. His gaze raked over her—the hood pulled low, the patched trousers, the way she kept her weight off her left leg.
“Not hiring,” he grunted, turning back to the wheel hub. “And I got no coin for beggars.”
“I’m not begging. I need passage to Three Streams.”
Jorne snorted. “Look at you, girl. You’re barely standing. I run a freight haul, not an infirmary. Try the Iron Road stagecoach. They got cushions and guards.”
The mention of the official stage sent a spike of cold through her. The Iron Road kept manifests; they asked for names. “I can’t wait for the stage. My... sister is in Three Streams. She’s ill. I need to leave at first light.”
“Touching story.” He didn’t look up. “Wagons are full.”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. With a quick, shielded movement, she produced two silver coins from beneath her cloak. They caught the lantern light—enough to buy his silence, but not enough to suggest she was nobility.
Jorne stopped. The rag stilled in his hands. He looked at the silver, then up into the shadow of her hood. His eyes narrowed.
“Silver,” he noted, his voice flat. “Most folks pay in copper or trade. You’re eager.”
“It’s what I have,” Gessa said, holding his gaze.
He weighed the risk against the silver. Greed won, as she prayed it would. He snatched the coins with a hand fast as a striking snake.
“Back of the second wagon,” he muttered, tucking the money into his belt. “Between the hides and the clay pots. It’ll smell, and it’ll shake the teeth out of your head. We leave at the crack of dawn. You’re late, we leave you.”
As the last light faded and Hillston settled into a rowdier, fire-lit evening, Gessa sought a hiding place. She didn’t dare seek a room at the inn; her funds were too precious, her anonymity too fragile.
She found a narrow, debris-strewn space between the back wall of the smithy and a woodpile.
It was cramped, but the dying forge radiated a faint warmth through the stones.
She unrolled her blanket, the rough wool a poor defense against the damp ground.
Curling into a tight ball, she clutched her survival bag close, her hands tucked beneath her for warmth.
The hematite pressed a solid weight against her skin.
She had sold her companion, shed her identity, and bought herself a chance. It was a bitter price, but freedom always came at a cost. Tomorrow, she would be one step further away. One step closer to a place where her Wild Blood was a birthright, not a flaw to be corrected.