But I’m not listening. I’m too distracted by hope, at long last. “Surely, for the good of the entire land…” I begin.
But from her scowl, it’s clear Veteria has run out of patience. Her pearly eyes gleam.
“I’ve told you what I know, so now begone. The both of you,” she says, twirling her wrist. A great gust of wind lifts me into the air.
…
The next moment, I’m standing on solid ground, the wind dissipating to a gentle breeze. Aren is trying to regain her balance on the cobblestones. The sorceress’s cottage is gone, and I realize I’m back in Evandale.
It’s barely dusk, so it’s almost time for Aren to open the Raven’s Beak. I’m sure there will be quite the crowd tonight to celebrate the engagement.
“Thank you,” I say a little too softly.
“Like I said, it’s my duty, I suppose.” She turns to look me in the eye, and my cheeks begin to heat from her gaze. I clear my throat, suddenly parched.
“I don’t know much you saw, or heard, but please. Do not breathe a word. Many lives are at stake.” She must see me entirely different now. Not some spoiled prince but a cursed man, pathetic and doomed.
“Not a soul,” she replies. Her lack of barbs gives me a niggling feeling that I’m right. She holds her skirt hem out of the mud as she turns and walks up the front steps of the Beak. I imagine that skirt a fine silk, only the best, like she provided for her sisters. But knowing her a little better now, I bet it’s plain cotton. She saves luxuries for those she loves.
Aren silently turns around and gives me a meager smile before disappearing into the tavern.
…
Laughter pours out of the Raven’s Beak, and the sound of it is almost alien to me. I decided to take a walk after we returned to Evandale, conceive of a plan. But now, I’m back among people.
The wind bangs the door open as I step into the tavern, and all heads turn to see who it is before conversation picks up again. No one gives me a second look in my shabby cloak and hat. I’m just another traveler stopping in for a bite. I haven’t eaten since I entered the forest, and I’m as ravenous as a bear.
But Aren, behind the bar, doesn’t look away. She lifts an eyebrow at me as she pours a mug of ale.
I feel even more unmoored, like I’m adrift at sea.She knows.I wave a dazed hand in her direction before heading to the same table I occupied just a few nights prior. I fall into the chair, the fire crackling at my back, lending me comfort I didn’t realize I needed.
I ruminate on what the sorceress told me. My quest isn’t over—and continuing it might kill more than just me. The road to the lost kingdom of Estyrion is treacherous, especially with the looming threat of war. If the Usurper or his agents found me, I’d make an excellent hostage. I’ll need the Wedding March for cover to continue traveling through Alarice and Loegria. It’s the only way to hide my true purpose from Penrith’s spies. A royal marriage must be blessed by the Oracle of Alba.
“You all right?” Aren asks, approaching with a mug brimming with frothy ale. She sets it down on my table. “You look like you need a drink.”
“I do, thank you,” I say, then gulp it greedily. It doesn’t seem as strong as the ale she served me the first time—or maybe I’m in need of more liquid courage after my meeting with Veteria—so I ask for another, and then another and another as my plan starts to take shape.
It looks like I’ll have to choose a bride after all. A bride who is fearless, smart, and capable. Someone who knows the world in ways that can’t be taught by scrolls and masters. I’ll have to find this person soon.
The last thing I remember before passing out on the table is that it’s going to be a long way to the Great Waste if I don’t like the person I’m traveling with.
Chapter Thirteen
Aren
The next morning, sure enough, I find the prince exactly where I left him, slumped over the table, an empty mug still in his hand. His mouth is open, and drool pools under his face. The only way I know he isn’t dead is that he’s snoring. Loudly.
He drank his weight in Alarician ale last night, and I’m impressed that he’s acquired a taste for it so quickly. He had a particularly bad day, and he downed each pint, on an empty stomach, with renewed determination. Before I could cut him off, he laid his head down and didn’t move again even after closing time.
I do have a heart. So before closing shop, I draped an old blanket over his shoulders, letting him sleep here overnight.
Now, in the rainy morning, I glance over at him with a new understanding of the man sleeping before me and can’t help but crack a smile. Look at him, drunk and passed out like the cursed fool he is. I’ll admit he’s nice to look at, even in this state. There is a certain boyish vulnerability to the way his golden lashes fall against his cheek. I almost reach out to touch his hair, it looks so soft.
Prince Dietan’s snores hitch, and he coughs before snoring again.
I snicker and let him be as I head to the kitchen to prepare food for today. I get the fire going in the stone oven, then work on organizing the pantry, itemizing what’s spoiling soon so I can think of what to use first and what else I need to order from the butcher and my favorite farmers.
But the events from Veteria’s cottage loop in my head. They’re haunting.
