Her anger drained away, replaced by a nauseating thrum of guilt.
She knew that Tor was only her pretend brother, but she had grown to adulthood hearing Val’s stories. He had spoken often of these men, had loved them like a family. And that was before she had spent time with all of them, got to know each of them.
Her hands felt cold and clammy as she realized the truth. In her desperate focus on Val, she hadn’t properly considered just how risky it was for them to help her. And now they were all in danger.
The last thing she wanted was for any of them to be hurt, particularly because of her.
She slowed, letting Jeremiel and Garet pull ahead as they walked the horses down the cobbled lane toward the inn, considering her options.
The Hawks would be better off without her. They could go back to the barracks and report in. Say they couldn’t find her. Grendel would never have to know. They would remain exiles, but at least they’d be alive.
She slowed down even further and considered slipping away. Jeremiel and Garet were deep in a serious conversation and wouldn’t expect it. She could let herself drop farther back and then quietly turn into an alley and away.
It was so tempting.
But she knew in her heart that she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave them without saying goodbye. She couldn’t leave Tor, in the Gatehouse because of her. She definitely couldn’t leave Tristan without seeing him one last time. And she knew that leaving on her own would most likely result in her dying in the near future—which wouldn’t help anybody.
She walked a little faster and caught up to the others just as they arrived at a friendly-looking inn with a freshly painted sign showing an ornately jeweled silver chalice.
Just before they reached the entrance, Jeremiel stopped her and pulled her to one side, a small frown wrinkling his forehead. “Before we go in, you should know, the captain told the innkeeper that you and he… well, that you’re married.”
“Married?” she repeated, confused.
“Yes. They wouldn’t give us a room. Not that I can blame them after…. Anyway, the captain told them you were his wife and got a room for you. Ah… I mean, you and him. And one for your brother. Um, Tor.”
Jeremiel looked so flustered that she couldn’t help a small chuckle despite her boiling emotions. “His wife, huh? Isn’t that just typical Tristan? Marries me without bothering to ask or buy me a ring.”
“Well, strictly,” Jeremiel started, clearly having been with Tristan when he bought back Val’s ring, but Nim glared at him until he gave an embarrassed shrug and opened the door.
She liked the Cup immediately. It was warm and inviting, the wooden tables shone, and the air was rich with the mouthwatering aroma of roasting lamb and rosemary. She wished that she could have visited at any other time.
The innkeeper came bustling out when they arrived, his eyes narrowed under a concerned frown. Nim turned on her most charming bedside manner to greet him, smiling and complimenting him, all while hoping he didn’t think it weird that she kept her hood up and her sleeves held tightly down.
Eventually she was able to escape to her bedroom while the men took the horses to the stables. She hung her coat behind the door, dropped her satchel down next to it, and looked around.
The room had a row of small windows letting in the autumn light that gleamed over polished wood floors. Several cheerful rugs softened the room, and a small fire crackled in the hearth. The bed was wide and built up with a surrounding step, a carved wooden headboard, and draped with dark green velvet curtains, bundled to the sides for the daytime. The matching green and white quilt looked soft and warm.
Next to the bed was a small seating area with two comfortable-looking armchairs and a low table.
A back corner had been partitioned with a screen, and when she peered around it, she found a small table with a basin and a jug of water. She washed her face and hands, scrubbing away the sand and dirt on her palms, cleaning out the grazes from where she’d fallen in the market. There was nothing she could do about her ribs, but at least nothing felt broken.
There was no longer any need to try and maintain the pretense of being related to Tor, he would not be joining them in the inn. So she soaped her arms and, with a pang of sorrow, washed away the smudged swirls of ink.
Then she turned and rinsed her hair as best as she could, running a fine comb through the thick strands until all the ash was out and the smell of smoke was washed away. She rubbed it dry with the small towel and then plaited it into a long braid.
Finally, clean and dry, she sank into the closest armchair and let her head drop into her hands.
Thoughts of Tristan, Tor, and Val swirled through her head, and she considered and discarded a million different crazy schemes to save them. Ideas of drugging the guards, distracting them while the others freed Tor, even breaking in herself, were all contemplated and abandoned.
She felt helpless, unable to avoid imagining what Val was going through, chained to a wall in the palace. Now Tor, too. Hurting and alone. She hated it.
She stood and started to pace. Waiting around in her room like a good little girl was killing her. She had to do something.
It occurred to her that she could go down to the prison and look around, at least get some sense of where they were keeping Tor, perhaps even learn something about what would happen to him in the morning.
If she went to Gatehouse as Tor’s sister, she could probably learn more than the men would, maybe even get to see him.
She could also check that Tristan hadn’t somehow become caught up in Tor’s imprisonment. He had been gone for so long. Too long. The thought of him locked in a dark cell beside Tor played vividly in her mind.
