Chapter 4

Ihurry through crowded streets, the afternoon air warm and sticky, rich with smells of roasting meat, sweet smoke, and salty brine. The cobbles are hot beneath my feet, saturated in sunshine hammering down from a near-cloudless sky.

I stick to the shadows where I can, away from the searing heat. From the glare of the sun upon my skin.

My soul.

I finally find a fountain set within the side of a building and plunge my hands into the cold water, digging my thumbs into my palms and scrubbing hard. He swirls down the drain in lazy turns, and a lump forms in my throat.

“I saved lives,” I murmur as more cracks weave across the crystal dome, and I pluck and squish and smooth and bog, then smear a layer of light upon the shield. The world seems to tip, ice shooting through my veins, and I waver, planting my weight against a lofty street lantern, teeth chattering.

Breathe …

Breathe …

Breathe …

Blinks heavy, I glance over my shoulder at a merchant’s cart tucked against the far wall. A swirl of people fawn over the various goods laid out on tables, but my attention’s drawn to a wooden rack crammed with clothes, snagging on a velvet cloak the color of blueberries.

I wobble forward.

Easing it off the hanger, I caress the material—thick and buttery.

Heavy.

I check the price on the label, then extend my coins to the young, weary-looking merchant, murmuring a thank you as I drape the garment across my shoulders. I huddle amongst it, sweep the deep hood over my head, and relish the comforting gloom.

The security of being hidden.

Then I walk, letting my feet carry the weight my heart is too numb to bear, every step nothing more than a distraction.

I’m barely aware of the men, the women, the children jostling around me, their chatter buzzing in my ears like flies. Barely hear the booming voice of a guard shouting through a cone before a huddle of people, saying words like oil shortage, restrictions, and conserve our resources.

I barely notice the sun setting, the sky dashed with ribbons of purple, peach, and blood red by the time a familiar building dawns in my peripheral, its rocky wall lit by the blazing glow of an overhead streetlamp.

My feet still. So does my heart.

Slowly, my gaze climbs three stories up the masonry work—the very same path I clambered down yesterday while smothered in Rhordyn’s scent, the ugly threat I spat in his face chasing me like a rockslide.

My chest tightens at the sight of his window. Closed.

Empty.

I look away so fast my head spins, plucking more light from my dimming insides and reinforcing that crystal dome, using the wall as a crutch while I battle the responding wave of lethargy that chills me to the bone.

It seems to be getting worse …

Clamping my jaw shut to contain my chattering teeth, I edge around the building, regaining some sense of composure by the time I reach the front door that’s capped with an awning, its lip pierced with a swaying sign.

I grasp the tarnished handle and pull.

Struck with a puff of warm air rich with the smell of baked bread, I step into a room swollen with gruff, black-haired men bearing dark eyes and olive skin. Their collective baritone tackles me, and the door claps shut as I lean against it, taking in the sea of blood-red merchants’ cloaks haphazardly worn, boasting peeks of dark territorial garb beneath.

“Shit,” I mutter, gaze dropping to the floor as I make sure my cupla’s hidden, sucking air that suddenly feels too thick.

Ocruth men.

Rhordyn’smen.

The ones he was smuggling into Bahari, ready to sail the ships the moment they were secured. The ones loyal to him—who answer to him.

They’d kill me in a blink if they knew what I’ve done.

Stab me through the chest. Burst my heart. Watch the light bleed from my eyes, their victorious chants tainting the air along with the smell of my traitorous blood.

I frown, realizing I find a small comfort in the knowledge that if I scream my transgressions to the ceiling—right here, right now—Rhordyn’s men will dish me the same fate I dished him. Part of me even … wants to. Like some morose itch begging to be scratched.

The door at my back shoves open, catapulting me between two bar tables surrounded by men whose heads swivel in my direction. The chatter dims, and a dark sea of eyes burn into me.

I tug my hood lower, straightening.

Aware of my bare and filthy feet, I beeline toward a couple of empty mismatched stools on the left end of the bar, dragging one back, the wooden legs scraping along the stained and dented floorboards. I slouch forward on the seat, leaning all my weight against the smooth slab of mahogany, inwardly cursing the persistent stares that prickle my skin.

A woman with a long, messy side braid the color of corn approaches me in a spill of blue fabric, an apron tied around her waist. She offers me a tight smile, but there’s wariness in her raised brow as she appraises my shrouded face. “Can I get you anything?”

I dig my hand into my pocket, pausing when I collide with the lump of caspun I always keep close—finger brushing its leathery skin once … twice …

A cold sweat breaks across my nape.

I nudge the caspun aside, pluck three coins, then slide them across the bar, hand trembling when I gesture to the man seated a few spaces away from me. “Whatever he has.”

She looks at the glass—half the size of his head and filled with a black liquid capped with white froth.

Big enough and dangerous enough to warm my insides.

With a curious sweep of my garb and a tight nod, she takes my coins and makes for the shelved wall holding a scattering of empty mugs. I look to the back wall lined with a mirror that’s mottled in places, noting my reflection.

Or more to the point, my absence of one.

My hood is pushed so far forward there’s nothing but a scoop of blackness in place of my face, resembling the shadows I spent all my life learning to cling to. My gaze drifts sideways to the sea of men—almost every one of them stealing looks in my direction.

I drop my stare to the bar.

A glass of water lands before me with a thump, liquid sloshing over the sides. “I didn’t ask for water,” I say, making a move to hand it back when a bowl of something steaming and fragrant lands before me. “I certainly didn’t ask for—”

“No. However …”

The voice knocks me off guard—deeper than that of the barmaid and with a cynical lilt.

Slowly, I look at the woman now claiming the stool beside me.

Her long hair is dreaded, the stark-white tresses twisted at her temples and bound in a half-up, half-down style that contrasts her dark skin and boasts her severe features: pale gray eyes, sharp nose, high cheekbones. The scar that runs from the corner of her mouth and up her cheek reminds me of the man I gave myself to—a thought that might strike somewhere tender if I weren’t so blissfully numb.

She’s familiar, but the memory of where or when I’ve seen her is hard to pinpoint.

“Who are you?”

“Cindra,” she tells me, and I wait for her to elaborate.

She doesn’t.

“However?” I prompt, watching her ease the merchant’s cloak off her shoulders, revealing Ocruth garb—pants and a shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled to her elbows. A leather vest tapers to her plump curves, Ocruth’s sword-through-a-crescent-moon sigil pinned to her lapel.

She drapes the cloak upon the bar and leans back, digging through the pocket of her tight pants. “You’ll need to consume both if you want this.” She slams a brass key on the bar, then intercepts the barmaid, taking what I suppose is my original frothy order and downing the liquid in three drags.

I should be pissed. Probably would be. Except there’s the faintest hint of a leathery musk nipped with frost …

My gaze drops to the key again, clings to it as I draw deep, realizing Rhordyn’s touched that key. Held that key. Used that key.

Does it open the door to his room?

My fingers itch to reach out and snatch it. To cradle it close to my broken chest.

I swallow, curling my sweaty hands into fists, stretching them out again.

I thought my feet led me to this inn, but I was wrong. It was my bruised and battered heart. The part of me that wants to be surrounded by him. Tasting him in the air I breathe.

The part of me that almost took that final step over the cliff and chased him through the doors of death.

“What’s that?” I feign past the lump in my throat.

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, Mistress.”

My heart falters, then gallops ahead.

I meet her steady appraisal, her eyes cast with a knowing glint.

Slowly, I slide my gaze past her to the men perched around tables, shoveling chowder and bread, guzzling ale, throwing the occasional look in my direction.

They all know who I am.

Bile claws up my throat. Threatens to choke me.

Murderer.

“I could always climb through the window,” I grind out through gritted teeth.

“You’d have to smash it, and in doing so, piss off Mr. Graves.” She tilts her head, the motion almost predatory. “Thirty years he spent pillaging copper pipes from the city’s underbelly to fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming an innkeeper, and glass is not cheap. Do you really want to cost him a month’s earnings to replace a windowpane just to avoid eating his wife’s famous chowder?”

“Even if I was hungry, it’s not your concern.”

“Quite the opposite. It’s my job to make sure everyone’s heartily fed, and I take my orders seriously. I can hear your stomach howling from here.”

“Who—” I suck a jagged breath, willing my hammering heart to slow. “Who gave your orders?”

“Who do you think?” She gives me a knowing look, then turns to her own bowl. Grabbing the wooden spoon, she blows on a chunk of fish she digs from the broth, devouring it with gusto while more fractures crackle across my dome.

The tapered tip of a wiggling vine peeks through one of the hairline clefts.

If she knew what I’ve done—that he’s gone—I doubt she would be treating me with such hospitality.

What if I told her what he was? The things he’s done? That I saved lives?

Your monster.

I close my eyes and rummage through my gloomy insides—plucking, squishing, smoothing those little beads of light. Jamming luster into the cracks. My blood turns slow and slushy, plagued with ice fractals that make me clench my jaw; make my muscles twitch.

Opening my eyes, I stare at the chowder. The hot curls of steam lifting off it.

It seems like an easy trade, but my roiling insides tell me otherwise.

I could snatch the key and sprint toward the stairwell at my back. There’s a good chance I’m swifter on my feet—

As though reading my thoughts, Cindra sets her hand atop the key and slides it close to her chest, guarding it with her body.

Something surges inside me, fierce and feral, erupting with teeth-gnashing violence. I consider the consequences of demanding she hand me the key by the point of my dagger, stealing another quick look around the room. At the men, no doubt concealing weapons.

I sense tension in their glances, as though they’re assessing the violent path of my thoughts.

If she’s their overseer, as I suspect … I’d put up a good fight, but it’d be a stupid one.

Cindra spoons a prawn into her mouth and tears a round of bread in two, lumping half beside my bowl, then using hers to mop some broth.

I frown.

Breaking a loaf to share is a sign of respect in most territories. It would be a bit rude if I threatened to stab her now.

With a resigned sigh, I plant my elbows on the table and curl over my bowl, grabbing the spoon with my sliced hand. I eat my fill of the hearty meal, a fullness that does nothing to feed the hollow in my chest; the void like a chapped wasteland with the absence of my caged emotions.

Stealing peeks of the key tucked in the protective shield of her arms, I guzzle the entire mug of water in one long tip. I thump the mug on the bar, scrape the remaining chowder up, and scoop it into my mouth, then drop the spoon in the bowl and extend my hand.

Staring at the back wall, I wait, fingers curling around the key the moment it’s placed in my palm. I shove off the stool and stalk toward the stairwell.

“Orlaith.” My name is served with the confident precision of someone far too familiar with it.

With one foot on the first step, I look over my shoulder at the woman—her back to the bar, one elbow resting on top, sharp eyes searching the shadow within my hood.

She lifts her other hand to display my dagger hanging loosely from her fingers.

My heart vaults, and I dash forward, catching curious glares from some of the other patrons. As my fingers grasp the handle, Cindra pulls me to her and hisses in my ear—five sharp words that prickle my skin.

“You look better in black.”