“I don’t know,” Will confessed as he heaved himself onto his horse. It didn’t matter, in the end. It couldn’t. He couldnot afford the distractions that those thoughts might bring. All he could do now was go forward.
To Aya.
“Come on,” he called to Aidon, that urging in his veins burning fiercely as he nudged his horse forward. “We’ve wasted enough time.”
***
Will was vaguely familiar with Maumart, the last Talan town on the outskirts of the Druswood, in the same way anyone involved with the Talan trade market would be, but he’d never stepped foot there. His father had always prioritized larger accounts—steel instead of lumber, gold instead of copper. Even when Will had served as Gianna’s overseer on the Tala Merchant Council, Maurmart’s contributions to trade weren’t enough to warrant a visit.
He couldn’t bring himself to feel any regret over it. Not as he and Aidon made their way down the main thoroughfare, the canopy of trees doing little to stop the rain that hammered down on them.
Maumart was more village than anything else, its roads narrow and muddy and filled with holes that sent carts wobbling dangerously as they raced past. The stone buildings that lined the street were covered in moss and mold, the wood framing the windows wet and rotted. He could barely read the signs hanging above the doorways.
Yet they found the tavern easily enough. There were a few horses already tied to the hitching post, and Will gave his own a consolatory pat as he fastened his reins to the soaked wood.
He could only hope that Tyr had found shelter. They’d left him at the edge of the Druswood with instructions to find them tomorrow, once they were well clear of Maumart. They couldn’t do with an Athatis attracting any attention.
He stepped into the tavern, surprised to find it boisterousand crowded despite the early evening hour. Maumart’s residents, it seemed, preferred to start their revelry before the dead of night.
All the better for him and Aidon, Will supposed.
Between the crowd and the rain and the bitter cold that had followed them south, no one blinked an eye at their cloaked figures as they settled at a small table in the back corner of the open room.
“Escaped a fucking deluge, you did,” a barmaid said by way of greeting. Will cut her a glance from beneath his hood. Her honey-colored hair was tied back in a ponytail, her face round and soft. She fixed him with a smile. “What’ll it be?”
“Two ales.”
“Is that all?” The question was innocent, but there was a familiar undertone to it that had something unpleasant curling in Will’s gut. It was the same lilt Gianna used to get to her voice when she was toying with him.
Will kept his tone flat. Bored. “That’s all.”
The barmaid shot Aidon a look. “Nice one, your friend. Charming.” She turned back to the bar, her ponytail swishing as she stalked away.
Aidon sighed as he leaned back in his chair. “Not making us any friends, are you?”
“Better than her staying interested,” Will muttered darkly.
There was a time when he would have leveraged the attention. Now the mere thought made him nauseous. Instead, he focused on committing each bit of the tavern to memory.
One barkeep.
One barmaid.
Twelve tables, including their own, rammed into a small crowded space, each full to bursting with weather-worn people seeking solace in their drinks.
A doorway to the left of the bar, where he could just make out a small stone oven manned by a soot-smudged cook.
The barmaid returned with their ales and plunked themdown unceremoniously before heading to another table calling for her attention. The door to the pub swung open, bringing an icy blast of air with it.
“Seven hells, does this country ever experiencewarmth?” Aidon grumbled into his drink. He grimaced at the taste, his beard twitching with the motion.
It helped—the beard. It softened Aidon’s square jaw, detracting from the sharp cut of his high cheekbones and adding a ruggedness that one wouldn’t immediately assign to the king. If Will didn’t know him as intimately as he did, his gaze might skip over him entirely, mistaking him for just another townsperson.
Will scratched at his own jaw, his covered in what constituted more of a shadow than anything full. “It’s unusual for the season,” he admitted, taking mental note of the newcomers: stonemasons, if the tools fixed to their leather belts were any indication.
He took a sip of his drink, the bitter flood on his tongue a welcome way to keep his senses sharp. A subtle flash of gold came from two tables over—a coin catching the light.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked Aidon.
