She gives me a long, hard look, and I realize my attempt at a joke didn’t land. “We do but I doubt you can handle it,” she says flatly.
“We’ll just have to see then, won’t we? A pint, if you could, kind lady. And what’s the specialty of the house?”
“Not sure someone like you would think our offering is good enough.”
I raise my eyebrows. “And what type of person am I?”
Her gaze flicks over my hands, my face, and my threadbare cloak. There’s no way she can figure out who I really am, but sparring with her sets my blood pumping. “You’re someone who’s accustomed to tiny delicacies on fancy platters. Things that wobble and take too long to cook,” she says, expertly describing the aspic-laden dishes served at court. “We mostly serve salt ham and biscuits here.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but I happen to love both of those things,” I say smugly.
“Is that so?”
“Can’t think of anything better.”
One corner of her lip quirks into a half smirk, the first I’ve seen her smile all night. “Coming right up. Watch you don’t choke on our ale, milord.”
Yeah, so maybe I’m not fooling anyone with the threadbare cloak. I sigh, watching her as she turns and walks away, a strand of her raven hair falling from her bun. This woman is unlike any other I’ve met and I need to know more.
Laughter from a nearby table draws my attention. A group of men my age laughs heartily, pounding their fists on the table. Then I see him.
One man’s curly hair and loud and braying laugh turn my blood to ice. After a moment, I realize my eyes have played a cruel trick on me. It’s not a ghost but a case of mistaken identity. For it can’t be Cedric… Cedric is long dead.
The spot between my shoulder blades starts to burn, and I straighten my back to ease the discomfort.Oh no, not now. Not here.But the memory is a painful one that I can’t escape, as hard as I try. The eerie laughter of two mischievous boys, the war room, the glint of the rings in the moonlight, the look on Cedric’s face as I reached for the rings, the darkness. So much darkness. That night my world changed forever.
I shudder at the memory. I try to center myself in my chair, counting my breaths just as my father’s witan taught me to all those years ago, to control the Rings’ powers within me. I remind myself I’m safe at the tavern and not ten years old anymore.
I jump when the sassy barmaid slams a mug of brown ale on the table along with a plate of biscuits and ham.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” she apologizes.
“No, it’s all right,” I manage to say, coming to myself. “Thank you.”
The barmaid’s gaze softens, and she looks at me a little longer than necessary. When she turns to go, I reach out to stop her, just short of touching her wrist.
“I was actually wondering…” She looks my way again, and I forget my next words. Her piercing eyes lock directly onto mine, and I struggle for the nonchalance that usually comes naturally. “I, uh, was hoping you could help me locate someone. I heard she might live here.”
That piques her curiosity. She raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Who’re you looking for?”
“I think she goes by the name Veteria?” It’s the only lead I have. I asked the royal councilors in Loegria about the history of the rings and combed through every crumbling, ancient scroll I could find, and that’s the one name that keeps coming up.
Supposedly, Veteria is the last surviving Vindar, a band of warrior witches and knights who decades ago kept Alarice safe—until they were disbanded and hunted to all but extinction, along with their magic. But not Veteria. She survived.
Free magic is dangerous magic, my grandfather, King Elgar often says. It’s unsurprising that the darkness brewing in the Waste has gained strength in the Vindar’s absence; we could sure use them now.
These days, most people who claim to know how to use the Whisting are hacks and charlatans trying to sell something. But lately there has been word of a sorceress who allegedly used the Whisting to hold back a river after a dam burst, saving an entire village from certain destruction. After that feat, she went into hiding, but rumor has it that she settled in Evandale. I would bet my coin that the sorceress in question is Veteria.
The barmaid lifts her chin ever so slightly, peering down at me. “And who wants to know?”
“Forgive my lack of manners. I’m D—” I almost blurt out my real name, forgetting that I’m trying to keep a low profile. “Dario.” It’s the only name I can think of. Dario?Really?I swear I couldn’t think of a sillier name if I tried.
“Okay,Dario,” she says, her tone making it clear she agrees with my own assessment of the name’s merits. “Yeah, I know her. She lives in the woods on the outskirts of town just north of here. She’s our best healer. Taught most of the wise women here all they know.” She tucks a hand in her apron pocket, and I wonder what small healing magics this barmaid might possess.
My heart can’t help but leap at the thought.
“Good luck finding her, though,” she adds, looking skeptical.
“Why?”
