Taking a deep breath, I unlock the door and slip out, into the common room.
I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.
21
IRENA
Outside the room is more crowded than I’d thought. The huge hearth on the opposite wall is blazing and the many wooden tables and chairs I barely noticed on our way in are mostly full.
Most of the patrons appear to be men—foresters and farmers—all drinking huge tankards of the inn’s frothy, bitter ale. Barmaids are bustling back and forth, taking orders, refilling drinks, and bringing plates brimming with food to various customers. I see a roasted joint of meat going by on one platter and a full bowl of what appears to be beef or lamb stew going by on another. The savory scents make my mouth water.
My stomach growls but luckily the room is too noisy for anyone to hear—it’s also too busy for anyone to notice me, much to my relief. I see a small table at the other end of the room, not far from the huge fireplace which is still empty. There are only two chairs pulled up to it and neither is occupied.
I make my way as quietly as possible around the perimeter of the room, making certain to stay in the shadows and keep my cloak closed around me. Nobody says anything to me as I slip into one of the empty chairs.
The table beside mine is filled with rugged looking men and one of them—a big man with a bushy red beard—seems to be telling a tale.
“I’m telling you, it was Jack Parsons—a wheelwright, he was, from over yon mountains—he went into the forest and never came back.”
“Ah, he just left for greener pastures,” another man scoffs and takes a big drink of his ale, which leaves a foamy mustache on his hairy face.
“No—for he told me he heard a voice calling for him the night before he went,” the man with the red beard protests. “Said he thought it was his sweetheart, who he lost to the plague the year before. I tried to tell him, I says, ‘Jack, that ent your girl. She’s dead and sometimes the forest speaks in the voices of the dear departed. Don’t go looking for her in there—you’ll only find what you don’t want.’” He shrugs. “But he went anyway…and he’s never been seen nor heard from since. He probably left the path and forgot that in Thornmere, in order to go forward, you have to go back.”
“Ah, you and your stories,” the other man says. He belches and takes another swig of ale. “Next thing you’ll be telling me to leave a sacrifice in the Ring of Thorns.”
“You’d better if you come upon it,” the first man says darkly. “If you don’t, the forest will punish you. Don’t be breaking no branches for your fire neither—the trees bleed and Thornmere won’t forgive you for spilling their blood.”
“Blood for sap—you been living on the edge of that blasted forest too long,” the other man says. “Next thing we know, you’ll be saying you’re personal friends with the Lady of Thornmere.”
My ears perk up at that. Could it be that this man knows something of the Sorceress and how to get to her stronghold? I wonder if I dare to ask him or if I should just keep to myself and hope that I hear more without getting involved in their conversation.
Luckily, they keep talking and I edge a little closer, tilting my head to one side to catch what they’re saying.
“I’d never say no such thing—I’m not such a fool as to follow the path through Thornmere to its end,” the man with the red beard proclaims. “But I have heard a few things about her that would make your ears tingle.”
“Oh? And what have you heard and where did you hear it?” the other man asks and waves his tankard in the air. “Hey—more ale here!” he shouts.
The red-bearded man leans forward and whispers hoarsely—but still loud enough for me to hear,
“I’ve heard-tell that she’s a man-hater, so she is,” he mutters. “She captures men and bends them to her will because thinks women ought to be the ones running things—so she does.”
“What? How would they do that?” the man with the hairy, dirty face guffaws as though this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
Sitting on the hard wooden chair, I feel myself bristling. What’s so wrong with a woman running things? My own mother has been an excellent Queen and leader of our kingdom since my dear father died. But ignorant louts like this could never understand that.
“There—top it up, love,” the man says, shoving his tankard at the barmaid who’s appeared at his side. But he shoves too hard—pushing the tankard against her waist and causing her to stumble back into me.
Our legs get tangled and I gasp as I fall off my chair. The barmaid scrambles up and turns to apologize.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t even see you there, Miss!”
“It’s all right,” I tell her as I get to my feet. “It wasn’t your fault.” She scurries off and I shoot a glare at the man with the hairy, dirty face but unfortunately, he catches my look.
“Well, and what have we here?” he asks, rising from his chair and coming over to me. “What’s a pretty young thing like you doing in a place like this?”
Too late, I realize that my hood has fallen back to expose my face and hair. I take a step back from him, trying to pull the hood back into place but he’s not the only one watching me now.
“I am but passing through, Sir,” I say formally. “Please leave me be.”
