Chapter 4
T he Merchant’s Bazaar arrives with little enthusiasm. Aunt Meena and I start early, tendrils of orange light seeping through the tree canopy our only indication of sunrise. The Bazaar used to be held in the village square, but with the heavy presence of the chopping block ever-looming, the market has since migrated to a long, wide walkway closer to the outskirts of town. Aunt Meena and I set up a small table at one end.
“Saints,” she huffs, sliding off the bag of books strapped to her back.
“You might have enchanted them to be lighter,” I say glibly. My own bag glows purple and I set it lightly on the table.
“Whatever for?” Aunt Meena wheezes. “I did just fine.”
“Indeed.”
The last of the night’s fireflies dance around us as slits of daylight break through the trees. Along the walkway, a few other merchants finish setting up their stalls—three werewolves and one siren. I help Aunt Meena stack the books, showcasing their spines or intricate leather covers, but my eye continues to wander down the rest of the stalls.
“So few,” I murmur.
Aunt Meena says nothing, but the corners of her mouth tug down, and she gives a brief shake of her head.
Years ago, the Bazaar had been one of my favourite times of the month. I would eagerly await the arrival of the merchants, who travelled so far from their homes to do trade with Mossgarde. Our ability to produce food year-round drew many merchants, especially the werewolves from Swordstead and the dragons from Coalsburgh. Both of their climates are harsh and uninviting so they relied on imports from Mossgarde for a time. It takes great skill to catch our swamp fish or harvest the fruit from our towering trees. Skill that left with the witches when the king’s royal law passed twenty-five years ago.
A middle-aged werewolf sets up his stall next to us, carefully arranging his wares across the table. He has shed his usual furs for a simple merchant outfit with a dark blue hood draped across his shoulders. Like most werewolves, he towers two heads above me.
I am close enough to smell the pomander hanging around his neck. Werewolves are sensitive to smells and believe different scents begat different results. I take a subtle sniff—he wears lavender to repel swamp insects and siren musk to ward off illness. A heady combination.
“Good morrow,” the werewolf grunts.
“Good morrow, Darragh.” I incline my head. “A fruitful journey for you, I hope?”
Darragh gives me a flat look under thick eyebrows and continues setting up his stall.
“Ah. We shall speak no more of it, then.” I indicate to our stall, the table legs creaking under the weight of the books. “Can I interest you in any of our wares today?”
“Got no use for fancy paper, Shivani.” Darragh glances up. “I don’t suppose you have any of that croca meat?”
“The last croca farmer left just a month past,” I say with an apologetic smile. “His daughter was nearly of age.”
Darragh says nothing but his shoulders tense. Sweat glazes his brow and he pulls out a small, thin cloth to mop at his face. He turns back to his stall, pulling out snowberries and sharpened knives carved from the bones of mountain bears. My eyes fix on the berries, so small and few. I think back to when Darragh used to bring bowls full of them, along with moonfruit and salted goat meat.
I cast my eyes down the walkway at the few other merchants who arrived for the Bazaar. Two other werewolves, cloaked in merchant blue, heads down. One siren from Frostalm, her deep indigo skin dulled by the low light as she unpacks her wares.
Not many traders hail from the Roaming City— they, after all, have access to many ports and all the fish they can catch. But at least one scholar faithfully arrives at the Bazaar each month. I suppose knowledge can be found anywhere, not matter how dire. The gaps between merchants grow with each passing month. I turn back to Aunt Meena’s stall and move the books around to make them look as appealing as possible. With the dragon texts displayed proudly at the front, I stand back with my fists on my hips. With any luck, the display will catch the eye of the siren merchant.
Coalsburgh may refuse to trade with us, but Frostalm is where the coin is and no good scholar can pass up a valuable book. Mossgarde sits close to the Glass Sea, the calmest of the Three Great Oceans, so Frostalm would send traders via their smaller boats to the Bazaar often. Their merchants made up most of the Bazaar. Or they used to, at least.
“Very good, Shivani,” Aunt Meena murmurs, nodding at my display.
Her gaze fixes on the full purse hanging from the siren merchant’s hip. She raises her voice and says, “After all, these are very rare dragon books . ”
The siren glances up with red eyes, intrigued. I turn to begin arranging some of the books at the back but walk into something solid.
“Oof!” I bounce back, arms windmilling, when an arm darts out to catch me. I look up to see another werewolf grinning down at me.
“Steady,” he says, pulling me back to my feet. He does not wear merchant blue but instead a red hooded cloak. The colour of Swordstead warriors.
“Eoin,” I say, letting him help me up. “My thanks.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve fallen for me.” Eoin winks and laughs.
“We both know that is your ego skirting past reality.”
He clutches his chest in mock offence.
“You wound me. Here, it seems a quiet morning. Very little chance of a scuffle or, dare I say, a kerfuffle. Let’s take a turn around town, shall we?”
I exchange a look with Aunt Meena but she only shrugs, a small smile on her lips.
“Fine,” I say.
Eoin turns to Darragh, “Mind if I take a break?”
Darragh waves him off without looking up, focussed on arranging his wares. Eoin shrugs off the heavy sack on his shoulder before offering his arm to me, bowing low in exaggeration. I sigh but take it with the ghost of a smile .
We make our way through the market at a leisurely pace, passing yet more empty stalls. Eoin’s pomander is more subtle than Darragh’s, but this close, I can catch the scent, dark and honeyed. The bark of a sugar tree found only in the Whispering Mountains.
“How goes your travels?” I ask.
“Business could be better but nothing a smile and a bit of charm can’t fix.” Bravado drips from his words, coating the doubt underneath.
“What of the famine?”
“Ah, now, that’s a heavy word to use.” He shrugs. “We’ll get by. Werewolves always do.”
I twist my lips and look up at him.
“You can be honest with me, Eoin,” I say. “We are friends.”
He stops short, pulling me into the gap between two crooked houses.
“More than that, I’d say.” He grins wolfishly, canines flashing. “Friends don’t often take a tumble in the storage shed, do they?”
Eoin’s eyes glitter a dark amber, his arms wrapping around my waist. My eyes trace over his features, strong and handsome. As I always do when he visits, I wait for the feelings to follow. The attraction is there, certainly, but feelings…
I gently pull away from his arms, putting space between us. His grin flickers once, like a candle flame threatening to go out. But he withdraws, putting both hands up, and takes a step back.
“Fair enough,” is all he says.
Behind him, I spot the glimmer of armour and my heart stutters. The guards will be collecting their tax from the Bazaar merchants.
“Come,” I say to Eoin. “Follow me.”
We hurry back the way we came, away from the approaching guards before they can spot us. I lead us over the crisscross of bridges, deeper into Old Mossgarde. Not for the first time, I wish I could keep going. Just keep running further and further from the guards and the king. Further still until I reach the Roaming City of Frostalm and I am finally safe.
Instead, we stop at my small sanctuary on the outskirts of Mossgarde. Slightly out of breath, I sit on the wooden platform and slot my legs through the fence, letting them dangle over the swamp. Eoin sits cross-legged next to me, his legs too large to fit through the gaps of the rails.
“Friends,” he says after a lengthy silence. He rolls the word around in his mouth as though tasting it for the first time. “You don’t find many of those on the road.”
“You have found one here,” I say truthfully with a smile. He smiles back, his boastful grin gone.
“Then I am a lucky man indeed.”
Our affinity may be bereft of the romantic pull I had hoped for, but Eoin’s companionship is still valuable to me. He is a good man with a curious soul, and I am often enraptured by his tales from across the realm. From the honeylemon trees that hang over the clay homes of Coalsburgh to the steam and metal of Frostalm, I drink in each detail of lands so different to mine. He has even visited the quaint village of Caldercruix, the Old Home of Witches, where many still remain. I think of them often, content under thatched rooves in a mild climate. I wonder what would have been if my mother and aunt had not chosen to settle in Mossgarde all those years ago.
We bask in a companionable silence, broken only by the sounds of the swamp. Firebugs hover over the surface of the water as the platform creaks under us. The thick treetops rustle overhead.
“For our kinship, you can be honest with me,” Eoin says softly. “What’s your plan here, Shivani?”
“What can you mean?”
He waves a large hand in the direction of town, eyebrows raised.
“Are you to run from the guards forever? Hide out here in abandoned homes?”
My ears and cheeks warm and I look at him sharply.
“Of course not,” I say, nettled. “I am leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“Mossgarde. The king. The curse.” I turn my head away. “The whole damned place.”
Eoin is quiet for a moment and then, “Your aunt?”
I squeeze my teeth together, jaw tense.
“If she chooses to stay, I will leave without her.” My voice shakes and the thick swamp air sticks in my throat.
Eoin sits back, hands splayed behind him and gives a low whistle. Shame trickles through me, wrapping like a fist around my heart. I grab the bars of the fence, resting my forehead against them with a sigh.
“I do not want to leave her. But what else can I do?”
A pause.
“In Swordstead, the mountain is full of burrows,” he replies quietly. When I look back at him, his face is tipped up to the canopy, eyes closed. “Big families of long-ears are common. Snow hares, you call them here. Anyway, when my father first showed me how to hunt them, he taught me to be real quiet. Because if they see you—this big, ugly predator—then boom. They’ll scatter. No hesitation, all instinct. And the ones that ran first, the ones that didn’t look back, those were the ones that survived.”
I stare at him, my hands gripped tight on the bars.
“You’ll find no judgment with me, Shivani.” Eoin opens his eyes, dark and clear. “If running means survival, then you fucking run.”