Keldarion gives a low growl, then walks over to Dayton and punches him on the nose.
CHAPTER 18
Ezryn
Everything makes me angry.
The sun, too bright for my naked eyes. The turquoise sea in the horizon that seems too peaceful for this debauched place. The constant jabber of vendors hawking their wares and the boisterous laugh of drunks despite it being early in the morning. Three times already I’ve nearly snapped the wrist of a would-be pickpocket, making me miss my armor; no one would ever have attempted such a thing if I was dressed in Spring steel.
What else can I expect from the immoral hive that is the pirate town of Corsa Tuga?
I should count myself lucky. The deserted island Keldarion abandoned me on was one of many used by the smugglers that inhabit these isles. I spent the night alone on that island, my wolf’s body curled around a palm tree, thinking of all the ways I could have killed Caspian. He’d ended my father so swiftly; perhaps I could learn something from the murderous wretch. Don’t think. Don’t hesitate.
I won’t be taken aback by Keldarion’s betrayal again. Three times now, he’s chosen the Below spawn over me. I only have myself to blame for thinking he’ll ever choose otherwise.
This morning, I’d been awoken by a group of smugglers and bartered my way aboard their vessel to Corsa Tuga, home to the most lawless and dishonorable fae in all the four seasonal realms.
I suppose I’ll fit right in.
If there’s any word on Dayton and Rosalina’s vessel, someone here will have it. I only hope I have the right price.
The dock square is nestled on the bustling waterfront. The smell of fish guts, spices, and unwashed feet mixes with the briny sea air. Weathered wooden planks echo underfoot as I observe each vendor, looking for one that may sell information.
Patched sails are repurposed as makeshift awnings, and stalls are crafted of stacked crates or barrels of rum. One merchant sells colorful cloth said to be cut from the Queen’s own gowns, and another peddles tiny daggers, claiming they’re genuine Spring steel. I catch myself mid-eye roll, remembering everyone can now see when I do that.
But nowhere do I see the most beautiful woman to ever walk the Vale, nor the muscle-bound, most likely shirtless, warrior that I pray is watching over her.
An angry voice cuts over the din, one that sounds too innocent to be in this place of scum and villainy.
“Look, I’ve offered you ten denarii already. That’s double what it’s worth.” The girl’s voice grows louder. “Will you make the deal or not?”
My gaze drifts over to a vendor sitting on a stool behind a slanting wooden stall. The man’s frame—more barrel than man—is covered in both tattoos and what appear to be barnacles. Squinting eyes peer out from beneath a weather-beaten tricorn hat that sits atop a clump of greasy, matted hair as he sizes up the two young women before him.
Stars be damned.
The girl scowls up at the vendor, appearing very much like a mouse glaring up at a vulture, but seemingly unbothered by it. Because of course she wouldn’t be. It’s in her blood not to fear, her mother being one of the most intrepid women to ever walk the Enchanted Vale and her fathers being two of the most accomplished warriors. Not to mention the legacy of her three older brothers.
Delphia, steward of Summer and sister of the High Prince, is dressed like a common urchin. Her black hair is swept back in a tangle, and a streak of oil shines across her dark brown cheeks. Her clothes would better befit a rubbish pile than a lady of the royal family, though I can tell the fineness of the dual blades holstered at her hips. I last saw her at Princess Niamh’s funeral in Autumn, and Dayton had doted on her as he always did.
Despite her scrappy appearance, she carries such maturity in those eyes. She’s been a child ruling an entire realm with noguidance, no support, no family. Now, she’s lost the only home she’s ever known and she’s here, in Corsa Tuga. This is no place for a young person, let alone Dayton’s sister.
“I ain’t trading this valuable product for ten measly denarii,” the barnacle-covered vendor snaps. “Why should I trust the coin of a streetling, anyway?”
“Fine. We’ll keep our coin,” says the girl standing beside Delphia, her voice deadpan. “If you won’t make the trade, we will find other ways to procure the item we seek. Perhaps I shall pluck a hair from your chin and make a spell of my own, one that turns your will to mine. Or I could turn your eyes inside out with a simple incantation, and we can sift through your wares as we see fit. Would that be preferable to our streetling coin?”
“Nori,please,” Delphia snarls.
Stars be double-damned. Not only is Dayton’s little sister here in this wretched town, but so is Farron’s. Eleanor stands with her arms crossed, her outfit equally as decrepit as Delphia’s, though she wears a skirt while Delphia wears trousers. A harsh sunburn has formed across her nose over her otherwise nearly translucent pale skin. Her long auburn hair has the bangs cut blunt over her eyes and hangs straight down to her waist.
What in the seven realms are they doing here?
“Is that a threat, streetling?” The vendor stands up, towering over the two girls. They stare up at him with matching wide-eyed gazes.
“You two dirty dock urchins get the fuck out of my sight and your hands off my wares before Itakeyour handsformy wares.” He snags a cleaver off his belt and holds it up above them.
It’s instinct. Before I even contemplate what I’m doing, I’m in front of the girls, holding the vendor’s wrist with the perfect amount of pressure to be just on the edge of breaking.
“I would be careful with such words, merchant,” I say calmly. The cleaver falls from his hand and embeds in the stall. He stares at me with a look both fearful and angry. “You never know who will visit your fine establishment. You may find yourself speaking with Her Royal Highness, Princess Delphia of Summer, and Her Royal Highness, Princess Eleanor of Autumn. When they wish to trade you their hard-earned coin for one of your fine wares,” I give a disdainful look down at the assortment of crap he has laid out on the stall, “then you should, in fact, respond with gratitude. And dignity. And thanks.”
