—Encoded undelivered letter from Miren Ballastier, Grand Magister of the Forge in Âme de la Terre, capital of Celdaria, to Taliesin Belounnon, Grand Magister of the Pyre, dated November 15, Year 999 of the Second Age
Safely hidden under his heavy woolen cloak, his hood drawn up to shield his sodden blond hair, Taliesin Belounnon, Grand Magister of the Pyre, entered the buzzing tavern hall of the Glittering Mare and headed straight for the goddamned barkeep.
It was a chill night, and the ferocious winter storm that had swept down from the north earlier that day showed no signs of abating. But inside the crowded Glittering Mare, so named for Saint Katell’s legendary godsbeast, the air was damp and thick.
The barkeep glanced up as Tal approached. Her mouth thinned, so much like Miren’s when she was cross—her red cap of curls was, similarly, eerily reminiscent—that Tal had to avert his eyes.
“If you’re going to drip water all over the place,” she said, “then it’s double the price for everything we’ve got.”
From underneath his hood, Tal met the woman’s eyes and gave her a tiny grin, the sort of charming, cockeyed smile he had for the most part put to rest since being ordained Grand Magister.
For the most part.
“Are you certain about that?” he asked. “Happy to wring out my cloak a few times and give the place a good scrub.”
The barkeep’s frown deepened. “You think a joke and a nice smile’s enough to make me change my mind?”
Tal stifled a sigh. He was tired and cold, and his boots and socks were completely soaked, and his shield casting, strapped to his back underneath his cloak, was unfairly heavy, and all he wanted in the world was a drink, all to himself, without anyone bothering him or complaining about the state of his clothes.
As soon as his mind formed the thought, he knew it for a lie.
All he wanted in the world—all he really wanted—was to look behind him at the dozens of drinking, gossiping, shouting people jammed into the tavern and see a pale young woman with wild dark hair and bright green eyes. She would be standing there, the crowd swirling obliviously about her, and when her eyes locked with his, her face would crumple with relief, with exhaustion. She would run toward him, arms outstretched, and he would gather her close, smooth down the tangles of her hair, kiss her tearstained cheeks. He would reassure her that she was safe at last, that he would take her swiftly home.
Her name curled on the curve of his tongue. It was a word familiar enough to have a flavor, tart and explosive, as if he’d bitten down on a ripe summer berry. Rielle.
He had to look. He could almost feel her standing there, frightened and tired, heartsick and homesick.
But when he turned to glance over his shoulder, he saw only the tavern and its customers, only the high-raftered ceiling and the shutters drawn tight against the storm.
He closed his eyes briefly, a sharp pain twisting in his throat. This wasn’t the first time he had sworn that she was there—just behind him, just beyond that turn in the road, just beyond that copse of trees. Her echo had accompanied him for days as he searched the Celdarian wilderness, and it was that remnant, that pull, that had him convinced she was always near, that he was getting closer to finding her.
Either that or she was dead, and it was only her memory that haunted him.
But he couldn’t imagine that the world would survive her death. And if it could, somehow—if everything could stay as it was even though she no longer breathed the air that kept them all alive—then theirs was a world he no longer wished to inhabit.
He lowered the hood of his cloak, shaking the tangles out of his rain-soaked hair—and shaking loose thoughts of Rielle. Maybe, at least for a few minutes, he could clear his head and find some peace. He glanced up, offering the barkeep a pretty view of his pretty face, as well as a rueful smile that succeeded in making her blush.
“Forgive me,” he said, chuckling. “It’s been a horrible, long day, I’ve been traveling for many horrible, long days, and my temper is frayed. Do you have a rag? I’ll sop up this mess of mine and leave you be.”
“Oh, stop charming me,” the barkeep scolded as she moved away, but he’d seen her mouth twitch, and when she returned a few moments later, it was with a steaming mug of cider and two white rags.
“Clean yourself up, and then you can pay for the next one,” she said with a wink that reminded him, once again, so utterly of Miren that he lost the capacity to speak.
Instead, he smiled at the woman, found an unoccupied stool, and sat hunched over his drink. Hot and spiced, it loosened some of the knots in his chest, but it did nothing to soothe the headache that had been steadily pounding against his temples since he’d left Âme de la Terre. He had worked diligently over the past several days to keep his thoughts of home fleeting, skimming over them as he might the spines of books he had no interest in reading.
But the cider wasn’t excellent only at loosening knots, and soon he was nursing the dregs while thoughts of home whirled and raced through his mind.
It was driving him mad, not knowing what was happening in Âme de la Terre. Word of Audric’s ousting and Merovec’s assumption of the throne had made its way across the country. Judging by the several hushed conversations taking place around the room and the furtive, curious glances thrown at the door each time it opened, the citizens here in the little village of Tavistère had heard the news too.
Tal gripped his mug and closed his eyes, trying not to think of Miren alone back in the city, dealing with Merovec Sauvillier.
Merovec Sauvillier, king of Celdaria. King Audric, gone into hiding.
Queen Rielle, vanished into the night.
The whispered words floated around the room, and each time they met Tal’s ears, the sounds curdled inside him like some horrible blockage he couldn’t dislodge. His only consolation was the knowledge that if Audric were found and killed, Merovec would ensure that particular piece of news traveled quickly. Until then, there was some measure of comfort to be found in the confused speculation regarding his whereabouts.
“Here.” A fresh mug slid into view. The barkeep was watching him curiously. “You look like you need at least a few more of these.”
Tal managed a weak smile. “I’ll pay for the third one, then?”
“Keep me engaged in fascinating conversation, and you won’t have to pay for any of them. You look like you have some fascinating conversations brewing in that pretty blond head of yours.”
“Fascinating,” Tal agreed. “Startling. Disturbing.”
The barkeep’s eyebrows raised. “You know how to intrigue a girl, Wet Cloak.”
“Aiden,” he lied, with another smile.
“Rosette.” She propped her chin in her hands and grinned back at him. “So? A deal’s a deal.” h;Encoded undelivered letter from Miren Ballastier, Grand Magister of the Forge in Âme de la Terre, capital of Celdaria, to Taliesin Belounnon, Grand Magister of the Pyre, dated November 15, Year 999 of the Second Age
Safely hidden under his heavy woolen cloak, his hood drawn up to shield his sodden blond hair, Taliesin Belounnon, Grand Magister of the Pyre, entered the buzzing tavern hall of the Glittering Mare and headed straight for the goddamned barkeep.
It was a chill night, and the ferocious winter storm that had swept down from the north earlier that day showed no signs of abating. But inside the crowded Glittering Mare, so named for Saint Katell’s legendary godsbeast, the air was damp and thick.
The barkeep glanced up as Tal approached. Her mouth thinned, so much like Miren’s when she was cross—her red cap of curls was, similarly, eerily reminiscent—that Tal had to avert his eyes.
“If you’re going to drip water all over the place,” she said, “then it’s double the price for everything we’ve got.”
From underneath his hood, Tal met the woman’s eyes and gave her a tiny grin, the sort of charming, cockeyed smile he had for the most part put to rest since being ordained Grand Magister.
For the most part.
“Are you certain about that?” he asked. “Happy to wring out my cloak a few times and give the place a good scrub.”
The barkeep’s frown deepened. “You think a joke and a nice smile’s enough to make me change my mind?”
Tal stifled a sigh. He was tired and cold, and his boots and socks were completely soaked, and his shield casting, strapped to his back underneath his cloak, was unfairly heavy, and all he wanted in the world was a drink, all to himself, without anyone bothering him or complaining about the state of his clothes.
As soon as his mind formed the thought, he knew it for a lie.
All he wanted in the world—all he really wanted—was to look behind him at the dozens of drinking, gossiping, shouting people jammed into the tavern and see a pale young woman with wild dark hair and bright green eyes. She would be standing there, the crowd swirling obliviously about her, and when her eyes locked with his, her face would crumple with relief, with exhaustion. She would run toward him, arms outstretched, and he would gather her close, smooth down the tangles of her hair, kiss her tearstained cheeks. He would reassure her that she was safe at last, that he would take her swiftly home.
Her name curled on the curve of his tongue. It was a word familiar enough to have a flavor, tart and explosive, as if he’d bitten down on a ripe summer berry. Rielle.
He had to look. He could almost feel her standing there, frightened and tired, heartsick and homesick.
But when he turned to glance over his shoulder, he saw only the tavern and its customers, only the high-raftered ceiling and the shutters drawn tight against the storm.
He closed his eyes briefly, a sharp pain twisting in his throat. This wasn’t the first time he had sworn that she was there—just behind him, just beyond that turn in the road, just beyond that copse of trees. Her echo had accompanied him for days as he searched the Celdarian wilderness, and it was that remnant, that pull, that had him convinced she was always near, that he was getting closer to finding her.
Either that or she was dead, and it was only her memory that haunted him.
But he couldn’t imagine that the world would survive her death. And if it could, somehow—if everything could stay as it was even though she no longer breathed the air that kept them all alive—then theirs was a world he no longer wished to inhabit.
He lowered the hood of his cloak, shaking the tangles out of his rain-soaked hair—and shaking loose thoughts of Rielle. Maybe, at least for a few minutes, he could clear his head and find some peace. He glanced up, offering the barkeep a pretty view of his pretty face, as well as a rueful smile that succeeded in making her blush.
“Forgive me,” he said, chuckling. “It’s been a horrible, long day, I’ve been traveling for many horrible, long days, and my temper is frayed. Do you have a rag? I’ll sop up this mess of mine and leave you be.”
“Oh, stop charming me,” the barkeep scolded as she moved away, but he’d seen her mouth twitch, and when she returned a few moments later, it was with a steaming mug of cider and two white rags.
“Clean yourself up, and then you can pay for the next one,” she said with a wink that reminded him, once again, so utterly of Miren that he lost the capacity to speak.
Instead, he smiled at the woman, found an unoccupied stool, and sat hunched over his drink. Hot and spiced, it loosened some of the knots in his chest, but it did nothing to soothe the headache that had been steadily pounding against his temples since he’d left Âme de la Terre. He had worked diligently over the past several days to keep his thoughts of home fleeting, skimming over them as he might the spines of books he had no interest in reading.
But the cider wasn’t excellent only at loosening knots, and soon he was nursing the dregs while thoughts of home whirled and raced through his mind.
It was driving him mad, not knowing what was happening in Âme de la Terre. Word of Audric’s ousting and Merovec’s assumption of the throne had made its way across the country. Judging by the several hushed conversations taking place around the room and the furtive, curious glances thrown at the door each time it opened, the citizens here in the little village of Tavistère had heard the news too.
Tal gripped his mug and closed his eyes, trying not to think of Miren alone back in the city, dealing with Merovec Sauvillier.
Merovec Sauvillier, king of Celdaria. King Audric, gone into hiding.
Queen Rielle, vanished into the night.
The whispered words floated around the room, and each time they met Tal’s ears, the sounds curdled inside him like some horrible blockage he couldn’t dislodge. His only consolation was the knowledge that if Audric were found and killed, Merovec would ensure that particular piece of news traveled quickly. Until then, there was some measure of comfort to be found in the confused speculation regarding his whereabouts.
“Here.” A fresh mug slid into view. The barkeep was watching him curiously. “You look like you need at least a few more of these.”
Tal managed a weak smile. “I’ll pay for the third one, then?”
“Keep me engaged in fascinating conversation, and you won’t have to pay for any of them. You look like you have some fascinating conversations brewing in that pretty blond head of yours.”
“Fascinating,” Tal agreed. “Startling. Disturbing.”
The barkeep’s eyebrows raised. “You know how to intrigue a girl, Wet Cloak.”
“Aiden,” he lied, with another smile.
“Rosette.” She propped her chin in her hands and grinned back at him. “So? A deal’s a deal.”