Chapter 14 A Trade #2
“Well, fae deals do have… magical properties. Maybe you won’t get the next piece of the puzzle until you’ve agreed to the trade it mentions?
” Brynn gnaws on his bottom lip, staring hard at the table.
He’s searching between the riddle’s lines, as I have been for twenty-four hours straight.
His eyes are unfocused as he continues, “Mavick was kind of… an oddity. Even among the fae. A hermit. But there’s always been rumors that they work with some… questionable characters.”
This is news to me. “Questionable characters?”
“Yes. You’ve obviously heard of Oathbreakers. They’re—”
“Wait,” I interrupt, as Jasmeen’s voice rings in my ears. Soulless. Honorless. Dimiblood. “Are you sure you cannot lie? A woman in the bazaar made being an Oathbreaker and being a dimiblood sound synonymous and—”
I shut up as Brynn’s gaze sharpens, as if gravely offended. But his voice is calm as he echoes Jasmeen’s sentiment. “No, that’s groundless discrimination. I am Oathstruck. I do not lie.” My brow rises at this, prompting him to reconsider his word choice. “I cannot lie.”
“She did mention it was a load of nonsense,” I say, fixating on the tart now.
It’s clear why faeplum is so popular. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
Like a tart plum mixed with the sweetest of strawberries.
Abandoning all sense of propriety, I stuff a bite into my mouth and mumble on, “There is nothing wrong with you, you know. Being a dimiblood. Probably doesn’t count for much coming from a mortal you hardly know—but I like you more for it. ”
Our gazes meet and there’s that wild look again.
Torn between fascination and distaste—this time it’s sprinkled with anger, too.
But Brynn shakes his head doubtfully, picks up his fork, and reaches across the table for his own bite of tart.
I take another and close my eyes as I chew—bursting at the seams but savoring the perfection.
It is almost enough to make me forget my worries.
When my eyes open again, Brynn smiles at me.
For the first time since meeting him, I realize, it strikes me as real.
Not a charming tool of manipulation. Just unbidden and genuine.
After a long, quiet moment of us both chewing, he asks, “Did you truly not know that Mavick dealt regularly with supposed Oathbreakers?”
“No. I had no clue,” I say. The idea tightens the old knots in my stomach.
I set my fork down, borderline nauseated, caught between the fullness and the intrusive thought that I may not have known Mavick at all.
“I never knew that pluckroot was a truth serum. They served me pluckroot tea for over a decade. Hundreds—maybe even thousands of visits.”
He scans my face, looking puzzled. “But why would Mavick do that?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I say with a sigh. “But everything I’ve learned so far about Mavick makes me wonder if I ever really knew them. Makes me wonder if I should even be the one looking for them.”
I meet Brynn’s intense gaze. It’s plain. He’s contemplating whether it’s a lie. If I’m putting on an act.
“Does it scare you?” I ask, unable to contain myself, and his brow furrows.
His slender fingers tap a discordant, anxious rhythm on the table between us. “What?”
“That I could be lying to you?”
“Oh. It doesn’t scare me, Thea. It terrifies me,” he confesses. I heat at the sugary way he says my name. Hopefully, he does not mistake my body’s betrayal for lying. Or maybe it’s best he does. Perhaps he should fear me. It’s in my best interest to cling to any advantage I possess.
“Well, I guess you’ll have to take my word for it,” I breathe. “What happens anyway? If one of us breaks our deal?”
“Are you going to break our deal?” he asks, cocking his pretty head to one side.
“I don’t plan on it. How about you?” I mirror his honeyed tone, blinking expectantly.
He studies me intently before shaking his head. His fingers halt their nervous tapping. “If neither of us plans on breaking our deal, there is nothing to worry about.”
I hear the challenge in his words. Trust. That fickle prize. We must trust one another. Or suffer the consequences—whatever they may be.
“All right,” I reply, leveling my voice, “here are my terms: you will help me find Mavick. I will help you find your mortal mother.”
“That’s it? That seems pretty straightforward,” he admits in mild perplexion. “But it’s also broad… I would be bound to ‘help you find’ Mavick—but, what if they need rescuing, too? I would not be bound to that.”
I ponder this. “Yes, it’s simple yet open-ended, and it allows either of us some free will—our agency—if need be.
” I pause while the lines recite in my mind.
Because every bargain has a price. Because every deal requires sacrifice.
Does it though? Brynn seems to be wondering whether this will actually work.
If we can outsmart a magical deal with ambiguity.
“But… if we’re taking additional requests—I want you to stop touching me as well,” I add, breaking him from his thoughts.
Brynn’s mouth pops open in incredulity. “Come again?” he asks. “Surely you jest.”
“You told me touch was a form of fae manipulation—I cannot stop thinking about all the ways in which you may manipulate me,” I say, fighting not to fold at the smoldering expression he wears. My face grows hot again at how immature the request sounds aloud.
“That’s what you think? You are infuriating—it’s impossible—”
“Oh? Is your need to touch me so great?” I spit back.
“No, I don’t NEED to touch you—I—you are serious?”
I nod.
“What if you require rescue from a pit of urgyns? What then? I’m not allowed to grab you—to pull you out?” His voice has risen an octave. I don’t even know what urgyns are.
“If I need saving, I’ll ask,” I hiss, thoroughly rattled by his histrionics.
“No,” he says, jaw clenched as he grinds his teeth. “If you need saving, you’ll beg.”
I shrink in my chair, recoiling from the outrageousness of his withering gaze. His knuckles whiten as he grips the glass of ale before him.
It is a long while before the tension eases. I refuse to break the silence first, and—judging by the obstinacy on his sullen face—it’s quite possible we may never speak again.
“I’ll admit—I’m wounded,” he finally says, his tone more even than his expression, “that you claim to dislike my touch so strongly that you’d add it to a binding, magical agreement. However, I don’t think it wise.”
“It’s not that I don’t like your—” I start, cheeks once again on fire. His brows and horns rise in mock expectancy. “I don’t like any touch. And it’s just—I do not want to open another avenue for possible manipulation. It’s simple.”
He considers this, looking as if he wants to argue. Instead, he nods.
“Care to explain that outburst?” I snap.
“Not particularly,” he says with a sneer of a smile. “But I will do as you wish and not touch you. Will you listen the next time I politely ask you to come with me?”
“I make no promises,” I say, “but I will try.”
The smallest hint of amusement crosses Brynn’s features as he mutters something in another language.
That’s as close as I’ll get to an apology for his fit, I presume.
Perhaps I should heed this as a warning.
But I’ve wasted too much time already and this gamble seems like the best path forward.
Briefly, I consider if a drop of Miridium will help here.
But my gut again urges me to trust Brynn—even though doing so feels much like that moment of mounting fear and uncertainty before falling from a cliff.
“Fine. The deal is just that. Plain and simple. You will help me find Mavick. I will help you find your mortal mother,” I huff. He sighs and sits straighter in his chair.
“I will help you find Mavick. You will help me find my mortal mother,” he repeats in a tone of borderline boredom. It must be a fae that strikes a deal, after all.
My newfound resolution is stubborn, indeed. I lean forward, holding my hand out across the table.
He eyes it, his fiery gaze traveling up my arm to the buttons of his tunic, before landing on my flushed face. “Do I have your permission?” he asks with a wry grin.
My eyes narrow at him in response. His warm hand seizes mine.