I throw my pack over my shoulder and venture inside. Candles cast dull light across a large circular room, where a bard perches on a stool near the hearth, plucking his lute and softly humming one of the Order’s approved songs. The familiar music drifts through the space, weaving between the low murmur of voices and the occasional thunk of mugs on tables.
“Hallo there. How can I help you?”
A brunette elven woman with rosy cheeks greets me in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. She looks me up and down with a furrowed brow. I replaced my cloak’s Order pin with a plain golden latch, but the glint in her eyes suggest she isn’t fooled. Ireekof the Order.
“I need a room for the night, if you’ve got any,” I say.
“Hmm.” Her eyes flick down to my waist, where I’ve hidden my blade beneath the folds of my cloak. “We don’t want no trouble here, you see.”
“That makes two of us. I just want somewhere to sleep, though I wouldn’t turn down a hearty meal and mug of ale, too.” Quietly, I add, “I’m not with the Order anymore.”
The lie they ordered me to give the exile, but it appears it’ll come in handy here, too.
“You got coin?”
I nod.
A long pause follows, the murmur of conversation filling the gap between our words. Eventually, she sighs. “Don’t make me regret this. You can have the room on the fourth floor at the very end of the hall. Find a spot at the table, and I’ll bring you a meal. Three golds for your stay.”
That’s more than most Caer Draen inns charge. I suspect my obvious connection to the Order is the cause. Still, I dig into my pack and hand her the coins. She sniffs, satisfied, and bustles away.
I wander over to an open bench. The tables are more packed than I expected, given the inn’s isolation. A dozen patrons cram into the taproom, but none spares me a glance. Perfect. I can observe without drawing attention.
What are they all doing out here?
The couple nearest me sits on opposite sides of a table, heads bent together, whispering conspiratorially over untouched bowls of stew. Their hands are linked, but there is nothing romantic in their hardened expressions. Is their anger aimed at each other…or at something else?
They might be rebels. They both have that hungry look about them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the innkeeper bustling toward me. I quickly scan the other patrons. A group of men takes up most of the table beside mine, and a few solo travellers quietly tend to their meals.
In the back corner, a man sits alone, his hooded cloak obscuring most of his face. A nearby candle wavers, then steadies, as a draft sweeps a chill across the room.
His fingers tap against the table in time with the bard’s tune, while the rest of him remains perfectly still. He sits straight-backed, elbows resting on the table, sipping his ale as his gaze moves over the other patrons.
His eyes land on me. Pale and piercing, they chill me to the bone. He cocks his head, the ends of his silver hair falling from his hood and catching the candlelight in an almost otherworldly way. His brow arches in a silent question—or challenge. My stomach tightens.
Silver hair.
For a heartbeat, something cold slices down my spine. This man could match the description the Order gave me for Taliesin Wynn.
But Taliesin is bound to the coast. The wards make sure of that. He can’t be sitting in a roadside inn, drinking ale like any other man. And there’s no sign of a traitor mark on his neck.
It’s not him. Itcan’tbe.
I know I should look away and focus on the other patrons, tomorrow’s journey,anything else. But I’m frozen in my seat.
“Here you are, love.” The innkeeper shifts in front of me, blocking my view of the stranger. She plops a steaming bowl of stew on the table, along with a mug of ale. “I’d avoid that one if I were you.”
“The man in the back?” I murmur quietly, hoping he can’t hear me. When she nods, I ask, “Why? Who is he?”
“Trouble,” she says before walking off.
I press my lips together. A rebel, then. One who’s managed to avoid the Order’s notice, since he doesn’t have a mark. And judging by the innkeeper’s warning, an important one.
As I sip my ale, I fight the urge to glance back at him. I can feel the weight of his stare. He’s as curious about me as I am about him. Like the innkeeper, he likely senses my connection to the Order.
The door suddenly flies open, slamming into the wall. The stableboy stumbles inside, eyes wild and cheeks reddened by the bitter wind. There’s blood on his hands.
