51

After another full day of walking, Philia spots a town rising from the dusty mist like a vision…or a wraith. Jadon and I trip in our steps, trying to see what she sees, our legs wanting to break from under us, our minds telling us that this is like yesterday when we thought there was a shallow pool just right there or that those were green spots flashing above the daystar at twilight just right there.

The landscape around us, though, continues to shift from dust and dirt to softer dirt, dirt deeper in color, and moist air, patches of green and living vines. Wildflowers replace brambles. Trees grow from twisted dead things to soaring living things holding bird nests and green leaves. And there are blue-breasted robins and shrieking yellow orioles darting in and out of those branches with twigs or worms caught in their beaks.

I want to smile and clap—green means water—but after days of walking, I no longer trust my eyes. I’m telling myself at this moment, right now, that I am not seeing what I’ve longed to see just a bit farther up the road. I keep blinking, but unlike the shallow pool and the green spots, this image isn’t disappearing.

“Is that it?” I ask, my voice shaky. “Is that Caburh?”

“That is Caburh.” Philia throws up her hands and twirls like a dancer.

It really is just right there.

Caburh is protected by a perimeter of wooden logs stacked taller than five men. Though I can’t see past those logs, there’s smoke drifting from countless chimneys, and the noise of hammers, and the clucks of chickens, and the shouts of men. Wagons and carts pulled by horses, mules, and oxen carry fruits, vegetables, wool, and fur. Merchants and farmers stand in clumps around the big gate, inspecting and haggling, smoking, and laughing.

“We’re not staying here longer than we must,” Jadon says. “Let’s keep a low profile, get the armor, and get back on the road to Olivia.”

“The sooner we find her, the better,” Philia says.

“Couldn’t agree with you more.” My steps quicken. I can’t help it—I’m beyond excited and slaphappy after walking the plains of Vallendor. Giddy, I can almost smell the aromas of roasted meat and baked fruit and fresh bread, and I have to stop myself from giggling. There will be soap and honeycakes here—I know it. There will be soft things . I don’t even care what those things are. I can take a bath!

“Let’s head straight to the inn,” Jadon whispers as we pass through the crowd at the gates. “Let’s stay together as much as possible.”

“We’ll get to eat, right?” Philia asks.

Before Jadon can say, “No,” I say, “Yes. We need a moment to breathe, to eat something other than lentils and carrots. I need to reset.” The tugging in my stomach remains, but I can no longer distinguish tugging that indicates my amulet is near or tugging telling me that I’m starving and exhausted. I need respite to make the right decisions.

The streets that wind through this town are paved with gray cobblestones as round as turtles’ backs. Unlike Maford, more houses and shops have been built from stone than timber. Only a handful of homes and stores still have thatched roofs—most are made from stone or slate.

There aren’t many outdoor stands or carts. That space is reserved for rickety benches and weedy gardens. There’s space here, though that space is a bit fetid and buzzing with large black flies. The stink of rotting fish makes us gag. It is wild to me that Caburh, with its stone, slate, and cobblestones, smells worse than Maford—but then again, more people means more waste from humans, horses, livestock, and rats. I glimpse a river peeking from behind the town. The current is slow, and the water looks brown due to… everything .

Like the tanner on the outskirts that stinks of urine and blood.

Like the blacksmith shop belching clouds of black smoke and noise.

“The entire town isn’t this rank,” Jadon says, apologetic. “There are bread shops and florists and… Well… The breeze makes things smell worse than they are.”

I laugh. “I’m not marrying Caburh, Ealdrehrt. Just coming for the luclite and a roast.” I wait a beat. “You’ve stayed here before?”

“A long time ago,” he says.

The complexions of people in this town remind me of apple varieties—from the rich pinks and bright yellow-greens to the deep reds that are almost blue. The women wear light fabrics that breathe, their hair pulled back in ponytails. The men wear embroidered tunics with the hair on their heads and faces in parted tufts.

But even with their wealth and abundance, the coopers and farmers, millers and mothers of this town also glow with death—just softer cornsilk than the urgent amber of Maford. Some of the people here stare at me just as Mafordians, but not because I’m running near-naked through their town. They gape at me because my hair is still too big and my height is still astounding.

Nausea roils my stomach and kills my earlier excitement. What creative names will these people hurl at me? Gutterslag? Lint-licker? The Most Beautiful Girl in the World, but ironically?

Jadon, on the other hand, is met with warm smiles and long glances of another sort. He’s the fairest of them all and can have any admirer he wants. The young women chirp, “Good day,” and “How are you,” and “What a nice big sword you have,” and he flushes from their attention.

One woman turns to walk backward. “I remember you .” Her friends tug her along.

“You were here a long time ago?” I ask Jadon once we’re out of earshot of his admirers.

“I passed through,” he says, looking sheepish. “Didn’t stay long.”

I peek over my shoulder at the young woman. “Long enough.” Was she one of the girls Jadon kissed who wasn’t the one ? I push down the grinding pressure rising in my chest and focus instead on my surroundings.

There aren’t many trees in Caburh, and the few there are lack healthy leaves…or have no leaves at all. Tree trunks have been carved with countless initials and hearts, crossed-out names, and a series of numbers that must have meaning to someone somewhere.

Miasma is here. From some of the houses we pass, I hear the same chronic and troublesome coughing that I heard in Maford. I see too many handkerchiefs soiled with phlegm and blood forgotten in that overgrown grass or discarded on those slick cobblestones.

I search for the inn we’ll stay in tonight. “The Broken Hammer is run by my friend Separi,” Veril had told me. “That woman is the best of us. In the Great War, we fought side by side. She once enchanted a rushing river to look like a brothel, but the brothel was actually a waterfall and the Dashmala tumbled to their deaths.”

Another reason Sinth would’ve hated Veril.

Another trio of young women passes us, ponytails swinging. They make eyes at Jadon and scowl at me. The blonde says, “Why is he with that muckdweller?”

Philia tenses beside me and grabs her mace.

Jadon says, “No, Philia. Fuck them. Keep moving.”

My stomach plunges to my feet. My hands are more than ready to join Philia’s mace.

Philia grins at the blonde and her friends. “Wanna say that again?”

The trio quickens their steps and rounds the corner.

Philia lifts her chin. “I thought so.”

I smile and wink at her like she’s my daughter, growing up in my image.

At last, we reach the Broken Hammer. It’s three stories tall and boasts a stone roof of glistening white-and-gray quartz and walls of knot-free redwood. Seven chimneys; smoke drifts from three. As the tallest building in Caburh, the inn is also the loudest. There’s singing and laughing, banging cups and rolling barrels. Townspeople stumble out of the red double doors, arms slung around shoulders, with glazed eyes and slick chins.

A Renrian woman stands at the door to the inn, talking to a child. She resembles a vanilla bean pod—long, skinny, and dark brown. Giggling, the child runs back into the inn.

Jadon calls out, “Excuse me.”

The woman turns, and her eyes widen. Gold charms clamp thick braids that fall to the small of her back. Her cheekbones are elegant and sharp. She’s a stylish woman with flat black eyes, wearing a lavender silk waistcoat and matching velvet breeches. She gawks at me, not speaking as we approach.

My stomach roils and my knees go mushy, and the moment we’ve been waiting for—rejection—is about to happen. I force myself to push through my nervousness, and I hold up a gloved hand to wave. “Are you Separi Eleweg the Advertent?”

Still gawking, the woman nods.

I exhale. “I’m—”

She bows her head. “No need to introduce yourself, Lady.”

I feel like my skin has been peeled back and I’m cold. “You… recognize me ?”

“I do, though I last saw you long ago,” Separi says, looking up at me. “You’ve changed in some ways, but I’d know your countenance and grace in the darkest night even more than Veril Bairnell the Sapient. He saw you only in your peaceful state, where order and light abounded. He saw the Eserime in you. But me? I saw you as I do right now—a weary Mera warrior with the wind at her back. It was my job as armorer to know you so well. How you moved. The way you favored your left hand for magic.” She bows again, lower this time. “I oarl ha’a’moc hua iya au rro farossoc rlo llalu lya’aum immosa.”

Stunned, I dip my head. “And I’m honored to be in your presence as well.” I introduce both Jadon and Philia.

Her joy dims as her attention shifts from my companions to my gloved hand—and the platinum fox amulet tied around my wrist. “Veril…?”

I remain silent, but sadness swells in my gut.

And, since she knows my countenance in the darkest night, she can read this loss on my face. Her lips quiver, and her eyebrows draw together.

“A lot’s happened,” Jadon says, breaking the silence. “It was Veril’s idea to come to you for help. Before we lost him.” Jadon’s voice cracks.

Separi stares at him, and then her eyes settle on Philia. “And why do you stand here, child?”

Philia’s cheeks color. “I’m not a child—I’m nineteen.”

“And I’m two hundred and six… child .” Separi lets that hang in the air for a moment, then says to me, “Welcome, Lady. Your companions are also welcome.”

“Thank you,” I say, “and I’ll tell you everything, once we’re refreshed, including the worst of things.”

We follow the Renrian into the inn. “We’ve come a long way,” I say. “I hope you’ll be willing to accommodate us for a night.”

Separi wags her finger. “Oh no, no, no. But you must stay for more than one night. The Festival of Acorns—you’ve enjoyed that in the past.”

Really? No clue what the festival is nor when I’ve visited Caburh.

“We’re on a schedule, friend,” I say. “And I apologize for the brevity of our visit. I promise that we’ll stay longer upon our return.”

“Until then,” Separi says, her arms spread wide, “you will have the most restorative one night at the Broken Hammer.”

The inn smells of jasmine and toast, and a big fireplace spans nearly the entire wall. The room is hazy from pipe smoke and hot from twenty bodies sitting in high-backed chairs. A boy with curly hair plays a lute as a girl who looks just like him—but with a ponytail—sings about a beautiful maiden and a frog. The adults sip from mugs and clap their hands to the tune.

I pull the hood of my cloak over my head and keep my eyes on the floor. Despite Separi’s kindness, the loathing from some of the people of Caburh has sapped any strength I had. “I’m too tired to fight,” I whisper to Jadon and Philia. “I just wanna go to my room. That way, I can breathe normally. Simply exist.”

“Since when do you want simple and normal?” Philia asks, brightness in her voice.

Extraordinary, though, becomes exhausting. Honestly: I’m so tired—of swallowing my ire, of hesitating before I react. I’m tired of holding up my head. Words have weight. Sneers cause burns. This Gorga-Jundum-mudscraper-muckdweller-giant is bleeding on the inside and can’t express how she truly feels because she’s supposedly a goddess who must save the realm and doesn’t have time for feelings.

We follow Separi up to the third floor. At the landing, our host turns right at an intersecting corridor. The hallway smells of woodsmoke and the musk of crushed green ferns. Doors on either side of the corridor are marked by doorknobs of different colors.

“Sounds like you’ve been here before, too,” Jadon says, smirking. “Enjoying festivals and nuts.”

I grin and whisper, “Shut up, Ealdrehrt.”

Separi turns right again, then stops at a door with a purple knob. She hands a key to Philia. “For you, young one.” To Jadon and me: “Veril’s favorite room. And…”

She hands Jadon a key and points to the door with a red knob. “You’re sleeping there, young knight.”

Jadon thanks her.

“And for you, Lady,” Separi says. “Come.”

I follow the innkeeper down the hall.

Jadon follows us down the corridor.

Separi turns a knob of pearl and gold.

This room has a hearth and a paned window cracked open to let in fresh air. There’s a narrow bed with a clean quilt and pillow. An open armoire holds towels, a silver mug, and a vase of fresh blue flowers. There’s a wicker chair and a little table with a wash basin, a pitcher, and a cake of soap. A large mirror hangs on the wall over the wash basin, and I startle at my haggard reflection. Outside the window, tall firs lord over the river, and a flock of wild turkeys scurries through the grass.

“I don’t want you to return home and tell the gods that the keeper of the Broken Hammer treated you like shit.” Separi bows and sweeps her hand from her head to her feet.

My throat tightens, and tears spring in my eyes. “Thank you. Really. There’s something…” I unwrap the fox pendant from my wrist and hold it out to her. “Veril spoke so warmly of you, and he valued your friendship. You should have this.”

Separi watches the pendant sway on its chain.

“You may have more luck getting it to work than me,” I say.

Separi taps the fox. “Does it bring you warmth? Does it make you think of good things?”

Hypnotized by the swinging charm, I say, “It makes me think of Veril and his kindness. His concern. His humor. His cooking. His generosity. Those are good things.”

“Then…” Separi nods. “The pendant belongs with you.” She heads back down the corridor. “We’ll have dinner ready soon. Hope you’re ready for a feast that surpasses all feasts!”