Sensing the re-attainment of control, I closed my eyes and focused on the blood pounding in my ears. My left arm bent awkwardly under my weight. It ached. Wind grazed across my bare skin; the contrast to the heat that scalded my body was disconcerting, and I shuddered.
When my breath returned, I opened my eyes. Vivid green leaves danced along the branches of the beech trees, and the dying evening light cast a yellow glow against the western sides of their trunks. I breathed in, scenting only the subtle hints of dirt and dew.
My pinned arm tingled, and I rolled to sit and take the pressure off it. Head spinning with the sudden movement, I braced myself, eyes lowered as I regained my composure.
As my vision cleared, my eyes caught on black markings along my left arm. They wove from wrist to shoulder, beneath my collarbone, and ended at my chest. I ran my fingers over the design, then flattened my palm over the rapid thrum of my heart, the slick unease of a nightmare choking at my throat.
The image struck me of Kaius’s tattoo bathed in the early light before Mother’s monument.
Each of my scars held a memory. Those, which were plain to the eye, lines of uneven discolored flesh, were reminders of enemies whose blades had found openings in my defenses. The most recent being from a run-in with the thieves, was already fully scarred over. The faintly raised scars that branched like the many roots of a tree were repercussions of the times in my childhood that my monster took over. The subtle blade marks of Astraea’s lessons—cuts along my neck and hips to draw my blood—left only the faintest of impressions.
Turning my arm over, I addressed the tattoo with a form of detachment. The concepts of magic and the cruel reminders it marked me with were not new; yet, at least in the past I had always held a remembrance. With my other scars, there waspain associated, a wound at infliction. I flexed my fist, and the muscles in my arm tightened, rippling the designs along my skin. These marks had come without pain, without notice.
A breeze rose little bumps along my skin, and I leaned against a sturdy trunk. Though I recalled waking in the wagon and brief moments after, the images were all a blur, a half-forgotten memory. I observed nothing notable around me or beyond the trees, no landmark to discern where I was. Focusing on what I knew, I pushed pointless speculations about the magical tattoo aside and assessed my situation.
My clothes were back in the forest east of the castle, along with my sword and my silver. It was dusk, which meant I was at least a day’s travel from the capital. The beech trees indicated we hadn’t gone as far south as the volcanic fields in the mining regions, at least. That left Urandun, Yorel, Navarre, or Elrune.
Cursing my monster, I ran a hand over the stubble at my jaw. I was stark naked in an unfamiliar wood with no coin and no way of regaining my uniform, not with half the castle guard searching the capital and surrounding farmland and forests. They were wasting their time pursuing me when the true threat walked within the castle walls. Agitation heated my blood, and I turned and struck at the tree with a closed fist. The impact bristled, and red marks scraped my knuckles where blood rushed to the surface.
Without direction, I began walking. If I found clothes to steal and a cloak to conceal my hair, I could veil myself from immediate attention while I sought out a routier or huntsman who might deliver a letter to Harlan and warn him of the treachery within the castle. A huntsman, as at odds as they were with soldiers and the guard, would be less likely to hand the note over to someone who may pass it along to Rion. Still, there was always a risk associated with putting faith in others. There was also the matter of coin, of paying a huntsman, should I find one.
The clucking of hens led me to the back gardens of a sizable building. Half a dozen free-range chickens pecked at the packed earth, searching for bugs or remnants of feed. One raised its head, dark eyes round and blinking. It clucked, and the others mimicked. The feathered creatures drew nearer, necks bobbing as they walked, and I growled my irritation.
Pushing through the flock, I made my way to a door at the back of the building and tested the handle. I cracked the door and held my breath. Nearby, coals popped, filling the room with warmth and the scent of burning cedar. Taking a chance, I stepped inside, nearly tripping over a speckled red rooster as it passed by my feet and into the room. It clucked and fled under a table. I cursed, closing the door to stop any more of the hapless creatures from following.
Kneeling to assess the dull-minded animal, I glared. Its body pressed against a small crate of wine. Dark eyes blinked beneath a sideways-flopped crown, and it ruffled its feathers. It was not of my concern—securing clothes was my priority. And coin if I were fruitful in my search.
I stood and took in my surroundings. The room was equipped with ample storage cabinets and, at the far wall, barrels and crates. The crackling fire came from a cooking hearth. Through a split door with the bottom portion left ajar, voices carried from another room.Based on the size of the building, the large kitchen, and the hum of chatter, I suspected I was in an inn. It could have been a pleasure house, but only in Valio and the capital were such places so sizable. An inn was most likely. And, at an inn, I may find a huntsman.
I took a step, and the flooring creaked as one of the wooden boards gave under my weight. The rooster beneath the table squawked at the sound, and in a ruffle of feathers fled through the gap in the split door. I gritted my teeth as the voices in the other room quieted momentarily.
Steps sounded, followed by a commotion of furniture being pushed across the floor, and glass breaking, paired with the curses of a woman. The rooster’s clucks cut off sharply with the unmistakable snap of a wrung neck. I sucked in a breath.
The lower section of the split door closed, and a latch slid into place; then the two portions opened together as one. A woman stood in the narrowly opened doorway, her hazel eyes sharp. The spotted rooster hung lifeless in her grip.
Her hair was a deep brown, pulled up into a braided bun atop her head. Fine lines at the creases of her eyes told me she was likely in her early forties. Dark brows turned in, and her lips formed a thin line. The woman exuded a steadfast boldness, yet to my surprise, she made no motion to beckon for the men in the other room. When one called out, she dismissed him over her shoulder.
I suspected there were at least three others by the varying range in tones I heard during the scuffle, but they were out of view. Retreating through the back door was the logical solution, but the curiosity of the woman’s unusual demeanor and the hopes that I may somehow turn the situation to my favor held me in place.
Setting the rooster down on a counter, the woman drew nearer until only the waist-high table divided us. She scanned my body unabashedly. The hunger in her eyes put me on edge, and I shifted my weight.There was a forwardness to her, and despite her being twice my age, I was coming to suspect the reason she hadn’t called the others in after me. Though comfortable in my own skin, I was suddenly grateful for the tabletop between us that concealed my nakedness.
With a considering hum, the woman knelt and her head lowered beneath the tabletop.Or not.I sucked in a breath. Glass clanked, and she rose again with a bottle of wine and popped thecork. The upturn of her lips was approving and heady.Was she intoxicated? Could I swindle her?
The woman took a long draw of the wine, then licked the tinted drink from her upper lip. I worried my brows, considering the best way to handle her. Deception was not a strength of mine, not as it was for Rion or Astraea.
She offered the bottle, speaking with a voice youthful for her age, sharp with wit that lent me to believe she was only lascivious and not drunk. “I suspect you could use a drink.”
Eyes narrowed with suspicion, I took the bottle from her and, addressing her over the rim, took a draw. The winewas sweet and light and held very little taste of alcohol. The lack of a label told me that the drink was inexpensive, its source not worth noting.
“What is your name?” the woman asked, leaning forward to rest on her elbows. The position pushed her breasts together, and the swoop of her neckline made them impossible not to notice. I allowed my eyes to linger a moment. Could I seduce her? To be taken to her room would likely give me the opportunity for clothing and coin, but I disliked the concept of taking advantage of a woman in such a way. Even if I did not lie with her—could not, for despite the events at the festival, my cock still did not stir—I couldn’t bring myself to whoring my body for monetary gain. I placed the bottle on the table.
“Lark,” I lied. With the festival at an end and musicians, crafters, farmers, and all manner of travelers moving south, word of the King’s death would spread like wildfire. Unless it was kept veiled from the public. Regardless, discretion was the best course of action.
“I’m Maerel, and this is my inn.” She offered her hand, and I shook it. Her grip was firm, as were her eyes. “Lark … is that a family name?”
I nodded. “Hadrian Lark. I’m a routier.Yourinn?” Women couldn’t own property.
“The Halfway Inn,” she answered, a challenge in her eyes.
