I was apparently as curious about it as a child as I am now. When I saw my old home upon approach tonight, I remembered how it always caught my eye, such an incongruence in an otherwise congruent place. My little mind imagined all manner of scenarios for what lurked in the space behind that wall. Sometimes, I would even point to it when Mother let me carry Raina on my hip, trying to show my baby sister the oddity, searching for any mystery I could find in our quaint, military seaside life.
Clear as the water along the shore, I remember my father holding my hand as we walked home one evening after a day of fishing. I’d asked him why that one window was missing, because there was something about it I didn’t like. Something that scared me.
Father stopped and knelt before me on the road, his blue eyes meeting mine. “There’s nothing to fear here, Pelly. That’s just a secret room up there. Our secret. A place filled with lovely things from many lands. It’s magickal. Don’t fear it.”
I’d frowned at that because if there was a magickal room in our barracks, with lovely things inside no less, I wanted to see it. And I told him so.
But Father just kissed my forehead, and with a sweet smile, he said, “One day, Pel. When the time is right, one day.”
I stroll down the hall where the door to that room used to exist and run my hand along the rough plaster. I don’t remember when the doorway stopped being here, but it seems no one has noticed or cared enough since we left Malgros to see what might exist behind this wall.
If Neri’s sliph of aether wasn’t in my other jacket back at the tor, I might be curious enough to try and use it to get inside. But itisback at the tor, and I am not, and I’m fully aware of the late hour. There’s a wolf and a sorcerer who will likely come looking for me if I don’t make my way back now if they aren’t searching for me already.
At least I remembered something. There might be nothing here at all. Nothing but an empty, rotting space.
But I’m not a helpless little girl anymore. Now I’m a witch with a god under her command.
And a way to get inside that room.
* * *
At the bottom of the barracks’stairs, I throw up my hood and push through the heavy wooden door into the cold, blustery night. Down the way, the mess hall doors bang open, spilling laughter and voices and military folk into the darkness. With the sound of clinking mugs at my back, I start down the rocky hill, avoiding the busier road.
Though the wind is bitter, people are everywhere. Groups of young men on their way into the city for the night. Families heading home with food from the market. Lovers strolling in their cloaks and gloves, holding hands as they walk in clouds of their own breath. For a moment, I consist of nothing but memories. They rush through my mind, simple moments shared on these very grounds with the people I have loved most in my life.
Taking a deep drink of night air, I pause and let the memories linger as long as they can, as if the cold might solidify the remembrance. The flood of recollection soon passes, though. When it does, I tuck my head further into my hood and move toward the main gate where members of the Watch funnel into the city.
Trying to remain uninteresting and unnoticeable, I fall in step behind a small cluster of five men, though I keep my distance. The one in the middle is tugging on his gloves.
This crew seems different. More formal than everyone else here. Their cloaks, boots, and swords are nondescript, the same as every other member of the Watch. But the way they move belies their exterior presentation. Four of the men flank the one in the middle, walking with rigid postures, their hands on their hilts. Always a single step behind, as though in respect.
They also carry the scent of sandalwood soap and sweet, earthy cologne. Or at least one of them does. It’s the man in the center, I think. The one who moves like Colden. I can’t see his face because they’re all hooded and swallowed by darkness, but even if not for the clear protection of an entourage, his long-legged strut and square, strong shoulders speak of someone with rank or power. A commander or captain, perhaps.
Or maybe a vice admiral.
My theory that he’s someone of importance is proved when we near the torchlit gate. Every sentry on duty stiffens and salutes, though they’re quickly and quietly scolded and fall at ease.
As the troop lingers, chatting closely with the guards, I drop back to the shadows. The man in the middle turns a look over his shoulder, just the slightest, and I glimpse his sharply angled profile in the warm light.
It means nothing, though. He could be anyone.
Once they finally pass, I tighten my glamour and step before the gate, meeting the eyes of the sentry who questioned me earlier. I’m instantly allowed to pass with a wave of his hand. It happens so quickly and far more easily than I expected, but I take the win and continue following the men out of sheer curiosity. I’m going this way regardless.
Soon, we blend into the crowds heading toward Village Hill. I’m thankful for the heat our walk has generated inside me. I’ve grown a little weaker since Mari’s meal, but I feel renewed vigor after everything that’s happened today. Somehow, I still feel half-alive, which is far better than theabsolutely deadsituation I endured over the last few days.
I swallow hard. I suppose I’m going to need Mari’s pork blood stew recipe.
It doesn’t take long before we’re on the main road, surrounded by gaiety and notes of distant music floating in the air.
A choice arrives when the guards ahead of me shepherd the one man into the White Wolf tavern. I remember seeing people setting up for what appeared to be a party, and that party is now in full swing, not only inside the tavern but outside as well. In the alley, fires burn in steel barrels for warmth, while torches flicker against the wind that’s partially blocked off by a makeshift knee wall. There are people in the street too, bundled together, half-drunk and laughing.
At the corner of the building, I pause, unsure of what to do next. The chances that this mysterious man is Vice Admiral Eryx are slim. If he was at the barracks all this time, Neri would’ve sniffed him out already. If itishim, then there’s a greater force at work here. A force that guided me to the barracks in the first place.
And that is the thought that makes up my mind.
When I enter the crowded two-story tavern, I’m instantly met by an array of aromas and people, very few of them pleasant. The more uncouth members of the Northland Watch are clearly the primary clientele here, but there are plenty of civilians occupying tables, corners, and walls as well. People are drinking and laughing, kissing and teasing, playing cards and throwing darts.
But it isn’t so innocent. The White Wolf is a rather bawdy place, which would probably make Neri quite happy to learn. The musician of the night stands near the hearth singing about a beautiful maiden sucking his lonely cock, all while two men in a nearby corner grind their hips against a lustful-faced woman, then drag her out the side door that leads to the alley.
