Chapter 9 Clues
Clues
The words scream in my head as I jog down the street away from the tavern. Before it was a mystic riddle—at present, it feels like an angry demand:
Because every bargain has a price! Because every deal requires sacrifice!
My panic won. I cannot pinpoint why I stormed out on Brynn.
I also can’t quite pinpoint why I glance over my shoulder now, as though he’ll chase after me.
Why would he? And surely if he went to Aston to retrieve Glo, he can find whoever he seeks without my aid.
What mortal could he be looking for anyway? What could he want with them?
With a lump only growing in my throat, realization dawns. I’d never be able to uphold my end of the deal anyway—I’m a fucking princess who can’t even leave her castle grounds. I would be of no assistance. It’s for the best that I ran.
But where do I go from here?
After a few blocks of mindless jogging back toward the center of Mayhem, the pluckroot sloshing sickeningly in my gut, I stop to catch my breath. Leaning against a stone wall, my bleary eyes catch on a slight movement across the street. It’s a sign swaying in the breeze. Mayhem Inn, it reads.
Perhaps if I get a room, a meal and some rest—allow the pluckroot to wear off—I will be able to formulate an actual plan.
All I can do is pray that Mavick is alive somewhere.
That whoever took them holds them captive for a reason.
I close my eyes and see that gold, glittery blood.
I push away the thought that they might already be dead.
They wouldn’t have left this riddle if Mavick was dead. This riddle to be unwound. This is what I keep telling myself, at least.
I push off the wall and cross the street to the inn.
Upon opening the door, the most beautiful music gives me pause.
I peer around the dimly lit lobby for the source, only to find an enchanted, floating lute, playing a breathtaking melody to an audience of no one.
It takes effort to peel my eyes and ears from this, but I do, scanning the small room for an innkeeper.
Behind a bar in the opposite corner sits another satyr, as I now know them to be called.
This one’s head is more goat-like, with small, pointy horns poking through their curly hair and fuzzy gray-white ears that hang low.
Unlike the singer from the tavern, who made no secret of her femininity, I am unable to discern their preferred identity.
I muster up what little confidence I still possess and approach them.
“Good evening,” I say. Wait—I have no idea what time of day it is. I press on. “I require a room please.”
The satyr tilts their head, and for a breath, I fear they do not speak the common tongue. But to my relief, their mouth opens, baring square teeth in what I suspect is a warm smile.
“You’re not from around here!”
“That’s correct,” I say, reassured by their jovial tenor. I offer a shy smile in return. “Is there a room available? And… could you give me the time?”
“Ah, yes—and yes!”
I wait a beat, but they do not share the time. I’m unsure whether I should ask again. After a pause that stretches long enough to become awkward, they say, “It will be ten pieces.”
Is that the time? Or the rate for a room? I’m too afraid to ask.
Shit. It hits me. I carry no gold, no money, no type of currency whatsoever.
I place my satchel on the counter between us and dig through it, uncertain if bartering any of its contents will be taken as an offense.
What choice do I have? My bag has what’s left of the dry brown bread, some random fruit, and a handful of tiny vials filled with elixirs and potions.
My fingers clutch at the most inconspicuous vial, a small tube of a gray powdery substance, and I present it to the satyr.
They survey me, their strange eyes glittering with suspicion, despite the toothy grin still sitting on their face.
“I cannot lie to you,” I say, half swayed by pluckroot, half sheer desperation, “I do not carry any pieces. I do not have any gold. And frankly, I do not know what this elixir is. But will it suffice for a room for a night?”
“That’s worth more than a room to some, dear,” the satyr remarks. Their expression is torn, but the flicker of greed is hard to miss.
“What is it?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
“It’s a cure for Ficklewarts,” they say. I’ve misheard them, surely, but they look as serious as a goat-headed person can look.
“Will it suffice for a room tonight?” I ask again.
For a delusional moment, I consider asking if they might identify the rest of the vials in my bag.
But I think better of it—they would almost certainly demand payment.
And it’s pure luck that I picked the least special of the potions.
At least, I hope the others are more helpful than a cure for what I assume must be a common fae venereal disease.
Minutes later, the satyr innkeeper leads me up two flights of stairs and unlocks a room.
The powdery elixir sufficed, thankfully, and they asked no questions about where it came from or how I came to be in possession of it.
They do offer to bring a snack after I’m settled, and I am too wary of offending them to decline it.
Once alone, I chain the door from the inside, more for peace of mind than anything else, as I doubt it offers much protection against potential magic.
I scan the tiny room. It’s nice, considering my low expectations.
A solitary window allows that strange orange light to illuminate the simple furniture.
The four-poster bed is small yet loaded with plush pillows that exude rustic comfort.
No full washroom, only a pisspot and a pewter washing basin.
A small desk sits in the corner nearest the door.
I throw my cloak and satchel down on it with a clink, the rest of the glass vials knocking together, and fall backward onto the bed with a deflated huff.
The forgotten dagger at my waist threatens to stab my side.
Without a glance, I yank it from my belt and throw it hard at the wall, where it sticks with a pathetic thud.
I stare miserably at the planked ceiling above.
I review my mental list of information gathered thus far—anything that could be pertinent.
The riddle. A lot of, I presume, Mavick’s blood.
Time is slippery here. It’s always seemed slower than the mortal realm, yet it’s no guarantee and that uncomfortable thought has the minutes feeling like they tick tick tick away in my eardrums. Pluckroot is a natural truth serum used on mortals.
At present, I’ve no known way home. I almost put my faith in a stranger with obvious secrets. I was so close to blindly trusting—
Brynn was in Aston.
Brynn must know a passageway to Aston. If he knows of one, surely others around here do, too.
I don’t want to consider crawling back to him for assistance.
I wouldn’t even know where to find him. And going around asking about Brynn seems unwise as well.
He trusted me with his true name. Though I don’t trust him, it feels unkind, wrong, to give his name to others without his consent or knowing—though I’m not certain if that’s how sharing a fae’s name works.
There must be rules or conditions around spreading a true name…
But why do I care? There’s no doubt—I would be dead already had he not stepped in at the bazaar. Though Brynn said I don’t owe him for it, I can’t help but somehow feel indebted to him.
A related thought occurs to me. Mavick’s name.
It must be their common call name… Brynn’s immediate recognition of it was troubling, too.
I guess Mavick never trusted me enough with their true name.
What did that say about our relationship?
What did that say about Brynn, who was desperate enough for help that he gave me—a mortal stranger—his true name willingly?
Maybe mortals cannot command fae. Perhaps that was an assumption I created in my head.
A knock startles me. I rise from the bed and open the door to find a small tray of plain crackers, cheese, and a glass of some variety of milk.
I spot no courier. No one to ask about the milk.
I place the tray on the desk and again close the door.
It occurs to me that it may be goat’s milk and I picture the innkeeper…
I cannot stomach that. Kicking off my boots, I crawl into the bed with a handful of the unassuming, hopefully safe, crackers and cheese. They are both dry, but taste fine.
While I nibble, I pull the scroll from my pocket and unfold it.
It’s basic parchment. Not thin, but not thick either.
I don’t recognize the pretty, slanted cursive handwriting.
I see no suspicious smudges, no cryptic symbols.
Nothing stands out. The fact that it’s written in the common tongue is not lost on me.
Like whoever wrote it knew I would be the one to find it.
Knowing I was likely the intended reader does not lessen my dread.
Every line applies to me in some fashion—I felt it in my marrow the second I held it.
It didn’t need my name scribbled on it. But, I’ve been wrong before.
What if I wasn’t the intended audience? While I ponder this, my finger mindlessly roams over the hole the dagger made in the parchment.
“Ouch,” I whisper as the paper slices me.
A fresh bead of blood appears on my fingertip.
I blink at it in shock. The dagger. I jump to my feet.
In three quick steps, I cross the room. I was in such a hurry, so very distracted, that I never thought to examine it.
I pry it from the wall and hold it flat in my trembling hands, careful not to cut my right palm on the blade. It feels like a key. A missing link.
I know nothing about weapons. This one is nice and light.
About eight inches long. The blade itself is a shiny, darker metal, almost black.
No discerning design there. The hilt is wrapped in a dark red leather bind.
I turn it over several times and see nothing.
I step closer to the strange orange light pouring in from the solitary window.
I am about to give up when I spot it in the dimness—a small imprint in the leather, right below the crossguard.
It’s… a language I cannot understand. An alphabet I do not recognize.
The words, letters, whatever they are, are tiny, enigmatic symbols.
Well, fuck.
It’s a start though—this is a lead I can follow.
The beginnings of an actual plan. Perhaps the smallest thread of hope to cling to, but it will do.
I place the dagger carefully on the desk next to the rest of my belongings and eat several more crackers.
I will sleep off this pluckroot and try the bazaar again tomorrow.
Someone is bound to recognize the language on the dagger.
Perhaps I can find an apothecary to identify the vials as well—though how I’d pay them for their services, I’ve no idea.
If all else fails, and my one minuscule lead goes nowhere, I’ll be forced to ask around about Mavick.
If Brynn knows of them, others must, too.
I recall the way the fae stared at him and shrug away the nagging thought that Brynn may simply know everyone. Someone must know Mavick.
I do not bother to remove my dress. I climb between the sheets of the bed, finding it to be quite comfortable.
Who knew my first official day of independence would turn into the longest day of my life thus far. Though I think of Mavick, and pray that they are alive and awaiting rescue, my head is surprisingly empty as exhaustion welcomes me into a dreamless sleep.