Lorelei wove her way through the patrons and scurrying hob barmaids to the last open seat at the bar between a male pixie and a slender male with nut skin and a head full of yellow fluff. Lorelei had met plenty of pixies in various bars over the years. Freya would always say that Lorelei should have been born a pixie with all her love of revelry, drinking, and pleasure. Of course, Freya judged people on first impressions, so of course she would assume there wasn’t much to pixies besides the generalization. Many enjoyed traveling and would tell her tales from different lands.
Though he didn’t have ears or a tail, the other faerie had to be a phooka. In fact, his nose was elongated with a hooked curve, almost like a beak.
The hob barkeep strode over to her, using an upraised platform attached to the backside of the bar, and blew a tuff of black hair from his face.
“What can I get you, my lady?” the barkeep asked.
Lorelei tilted her head up and scanned the bottles on the wall shelf behind the bar. “What kinds of wine do you have?”
“We have some of the best wines from all over the Empire. If you’re looking for something rich, we have a few bottles of the Imperial Red.” The barkeep leaned close to murmur, “Though, I think our house wine tastes just as good. It’s called Heart of the Lovers.”
“Hmm, I like the name and I’m always willing to try something new.”
The barkeep waddled off and returned a few minutes later with her wine.
Lorelei pulled a silver coin from a pouch on her belt and slid it across the bar. The barkeep tipped his head with a grin, revealing a missing tooth, and took the coin before heading off to another patron down the bar.
Lorelei turned to face the tavern, wine in hand. A phooka from one of the corner tables hopped up and danced to the center of the room while strumming a lute. Cheers filled the room as she sang the first few notes of her song.
Lorelei took her first drink of the wine and smiled. The taste of berries mixed with a hint of spiciness danced on her tongue. A tiny rush of Aether raced through her body. She let out a giggle and leaned back against the bar.
Her head bobbed to the music and a smile lit her face as she finished her wine. She tapped her fingers against the bar, the slight roughness of the wood scratching her finger tips. She tipped the glass back and was only rewarded with the last drop.
“Another round?” a smooth voice tickled her ear.
Lorelei glanced over at the phooka with a raised eyebrow, but he was already waving down the barkeep.
“A refill for the lady and another Sidesweeper for me,” the phooka said.
“Thanks.” Lorelei studied the phooka as the barkeep left to fill the order.
“Anything for a beautiful lady.” He smiled at her. “I’m Hamlin, by the way.”
“Lorelei.” She shook his hand. “So, do you live in Nearon?”
“Not at all,” he chuckled. “I’m from farther South, on the edge of the desert. You probably haven’t heard of it. It’s called Kurnach.”
She shook her head. “No, I haven’t heard of it. It’s not officially part of the Empire, is it?”
“No, we’re part of the Freelands of the South.”
“Oh, so what is it like there?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Not much to talk about. It’s a town like any other.”
“Well, are there any stories about the town?” she asked. “There has to be something interesting.”
He smiled at her. “We do have one about a warrior who defended the entire city from an invasion of Sluagh by himself. He died, of course.”
Lorelei’s heart raced. She loved stories like this. “What happened? Why were they attacking?”
“Well, it was said that whoever possessed the heart of the City would possess the desert and there were several Sluagh Princes who wished to rule the desert.
“Of course, the people of the city didn’t want to be ruled by demons, and many a warrior rose to defend Kurnach. They were all defeated in battle except for Kieran. He stood tall with his spear and slayed many that day. Unfortunately, he gave his life in that defense, but his sacrifice stopped the attacks.”
The barkeeper placed their drinks in front of them.
“How?” Lorelei asked Hamlin. “I mean, if the really strong warrior preventing the city from being taken died, why didn’t the Sluagh double their efforts?”
Hamlin shook his head, then took a sip from his glass. “I don’t know, really. It all happened during the time when the Miasma came, so all we have is the tale that was passed down.”
“Oh.” Lorelei picked up her wine and took a drink to mask her disappointment.
“What about you?” Hamlin asked. “Are you from the Empire?”
A smile spread across her face and she giggled. “Hy-Breasail, actually. How did you know?”
“That’s a port, right?”
She nodded. “It’s the closest port from the Empire proper to Nearon.”
“It must be a great place,” he said.
As long as the faerie acted the right way.
She glanced away and sipped her wine. “So, were you at the fire lighting?”
He perked up. “I was. It was a great show!”
“It was entertaining,” Lorelei said, slightly less impressed.
His face scrunched up. “Though I was a little confused on a few things.”
“Like what?”
He raised a brow. “Is the Quorum run by all sidhe? No other faerie?”
“Well, no,” Lorelei said. “Other faeries are allowed to join the Houses, but the leaders are all sidhe. We’re born to rule, after all.”
“We don’t do that back home. Whoever is strongest rules.”
She chuckled. “You don’t have many sidhe there, do you?”
“Not really. Why?”
“Because they’d most likely find their way to the top. As I said, born to rule.”
He shrugged. “If you say so.”
She glanced at his drink. “What is that?”
“It’s a mix of whiskey and a cinnamon alcohol,” he said. “It’s smooth, but it sneaks up on you.”
She waved to the barkeep. “I’d like a Sidesweeper, like his.”
Hamlin raised a brow. “You sure? It’s a bit strong.”
“I can handle it.” She grinned at him. “I’m not the delicate flower you think I am.”
His gaze traveled down her body. “Oh, I’m sure you’re not.”
One side of her lips lifted in a smirk as the barkeep brought a small glass of amber liquid. She held Hamlin’s gold-eyed gaze as she tipped the glass and drained it.
He gave a low whistle. “Brave of you.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’m a Moura. Bravery is in our blood.”
“A Moura, hmm? So, did you come to see the Menhir?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Why else would a Moura come from the Empire?”
“I have my reasons.” She glanced at the phooka minstrel, who had started playing a lively jig. She returned her gaze at Hamlin. “Want to dance?”
He stood and gave an elaborate bow, then offered his hand. “I’d be honored, my lady.”
She took his hand and they moved to the open space that had been made for dancers. She whirled about in his arms, laughing and singing the repeated chorus with the rest of the tavern. They danced for hours, stopping only to relieve their thirst with a few rounds of Sidesweepers.
The city was dark and quiet by the time they left the tavern. Lorelei barely noticed as the buildings passed in a blur.
Giggling and making shushing sounds, she followed him up the stairs of the inn he was staying in and into his room. Their lips met in fevered kisses, and they pulled their clothes from their bodies and dropped them about the floor. They fell upon the bed and into each other, and for a moment of ecstasy, Lorelei forgot the constant ache in her heart.
Later while he slept, she slipped out of the inn and returned to the temple. On her way to her room, one of the pri
ests at the door raised an eyebrow at her, but she gave him a salute.
Inside her room, she laid in her borrowed bed and stared up at the tiled ceiling. He’d asked why she’d come. Yes, she had her own reasons aside from the Menhir. She would find the Black Herons and prove their existence. Arryn, her parents…hell, the Quorum themselves would have to admit she was right.
She just had to survive Winderward first.
4
The cacophony of cheering and music filled the city streets. Red and orange banners fluttered in the air, strung together along the street posts. The scent of roasted meats and sweet breads drifted along the breeze. Thousands of Nearon’s citizens had turned out for the parade honoring the arrival of the Apostle of Fire. Every one of them impeded Vandermere from his destination.
He pressed his back to the wooden wall of a tavern as a group of three faerie—a pixie, a phooka, and a hob—ambled past him, laughing and talking excitedly with each other. Luckily, the Apostle and her entourage had already passed through the neighborhood surrounding the docks at the beginning of the parade. He’d fought his way through the worst of the crowds. He only had a few blocks more until he reached the ships. There, he hopefully could find the girl he was looking for. The Nightingale.
He ducked his head down and quickened his pace. The scent of sea and fish assaulted his senses before he rounded the street corner that led to the docks. He wrinkled his nose and pushed on, until he reached the buildings that lined the wooden planks of the harbor.
He stopped and surveyed them. They didn’t look like much. They stood in a range from one story to four stories, with their wood dried and cracked from the salty air.
He wrinkled his nose as the stench of fish overpowered the sea air.
The docks were nothing like the center of the city with its immaculate houses of stone and ebonwood. There, the homes stretched up several stories and sat upon roads of new cobblestone.
Vandermere sighed. He’d grown tired of the backstabbing and politics of the city run by the Legate and the Council of Peers. They weren’t part of the Elphyne Empire, but their scheming and backstabbing reminded him of the Quorum. His duty had been to watch the Menhir, but soon it would be over. He needed to find the girl first.
Seven ships sat floating in the sea next to the docks. One more than yesterday.
Vandermere’s heartbeat sped up. Today had to be the day that the Nightingale arrived. His gaze drifted over the sails and name symbols of the ships. The newest one sat at the end of the dock. It was simpler than what he expected for a sidhe noble to travel on. However, the symbol of a four-pointed star surrounded by flame was emblazoned on the sails. The mark of the Apostle of Fire. In his vision, he’d seen the Nightingale surrounded by flames.
The boards creaked under his feet as he strode to the gangplank. Two sailors, a phooka and redcap, were carrying a large crate down. They set it to the side and looked down at him. The red narrowed his eyes at Vandermere as he pushed his red hair from his forehead. The phooka’s rabbit ears twitched and he tilted his head at Vandermere with a look of curiosity.
“Anything we can help ye with, milord?” the phooka asked, giving a respectful bow.
“Have the passengers disembarked already?” Vandermere asked.
“Aye.” The redcap flashed his sharp teeth. “They left about an hour after we arrived.”
“Did they mention where they were traveling to?” Vandermere asked.
“Why?” the redcap asked with a growl.
“I’m looking for a girl. She has mahogany hair and likes to sing,” Vandermere said.
The phooka shrugged. “She left with the others, including the Apostle.”
Vandermere rubbed the back of his neck. Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy. “Thank you.”
He turned and scanned the thatched roofs of the shops and taverns.
She’d left with the Apostle, but they could have just been traveling on the same ship. Once again, his vision hadn’t been specific on who she would arrive with, if anyone. Still, he should check the newly built Temple of Resplendent Order near the heart of Nearon incase she’d been a part of the Apostle’s entourage.
He groaned. Those wishing to hear the words of the Apostle would crowd the temple. She herself would have many guards. If the Nightingale was a part of her retinue, he would have to use his influence as the only member of House Essus in the city. That meant possibly showing his hand.
Why was he even doing this? Searching for a girl in hopes she would help him. His visions were suspect, at best. They were never wrong, but the Shadow lurked on the edges, waiting to take control.
Shouts from the sailors on the deck of the ship pulled him from his reverie. He hurried down the wooden pier to the cobblestone street. Dock workers milled about hefting cargo onto ships in the bright sunlight. A winged pixie girl stood in front of the door of a tavern and beckoned him towards her as he passed by. With the shake of his head, he turned left and strode towards the center of the city. He would search the more refined taverns on his way to the temple. After all, the girl was sidhe and had to have some of her family money.
As he strode farther into the city, the wooden buildings gave way to brick and the scent of baked sweetbread from a nearby bakery overtook the smell of salt and fish.
Vandermere scanned the corner of the cobblestone street with a sigh. Banners of different shades of red were tied to the streetlamps, though some had fallen into the street, trampled by passing carriages.
How could the girl be the key to unraveling what he had seen? How could she know more about the Shadow than he?
He should just return home. It wasn’t far from Nearon in the first place, because of his duty.
However, the visions were growing stronger and becoming more frequent. He had to understand what they meant. He was responsible for the events he prophesized. How could he alone carry so much upon his shoulders?
The Shadow was moving faster. Vandermere could feel something looming in the future that could shake the foundations of everything.
He turned right and walked down the sidewalk towards the center of the city. A female hob stood beside a cart of fruits, calling out to those who passed her.
The worst part of the vision was the tower of Iron that rose out of the sea. He shuddered at the thought of such a thing of pure poison. It had to be a symbol for something. Was the Miasma returning?
As if his thoughts called to it, cold fingertips prickled at the back of his mind. He shuddered as a weight filled his cheek, stifling his breathing. No. He couldn’t have an attack here. He needed to find the girl first. She could save him. He’d seen it once. The Nightingale could push the Shadow from his mind.
He raked his fingers across his forehead, his nails leaving a tingling aftershock as he stared up at a sign across the street. It was of a dancing hog with a mug of ale in its hand. The Jigging Pig. This would have to do for a start. Perhaps she had stopped by.
He sprinted across the street and yanked open the door. The long wooden tables were half filled with patrons hunched over steaming bowls. The smell of stewed fish and vegetables permeated the tavern.
A hob with blue green hair paused from scrubbing the counter to look up at Vandermere.
“Welcome, my lord,” he called. “Can I get you a bowl of stew and a pint?”
Vandermere shook his head and strode to the bar. He kept his voice low and even, fighting off the tremors that wanted to pulse through his body. “Actually, I’m looking for a sidhe girl. She would come to my shoulder with mahogany hair. Maybe she asked to sing?”
The barkeep studied him with narrowed eyes and then made a sucking sound. “Can’t rightly say, my lord. There’s been a lot of folks in from all over for the coming of the Fire Apostle. A few of them sidhe, even.”
Vandermere’s shoulders slumped. “Is this an inn?”
“Nope, we’re just a tavern. The closest inn is the Dented Shield up the street.”
“Thank you, I—” Vandermere gaspe
d as the hob and the tavern began to fade to blackness.
The barkeeps voice sounded far away. “My lord, are you all right? Perhaps you should sit down?”
Vandermere stumbled towards the door and escaped outside. He needed to get to his house and to his protection. Everything dimmed and the roaring of waves filled his ears.
From the roiling sea, a burst of steam shoots forth a massive iron tower that twists itself into the night sky, rending it like a spear would pierce flesh.
He rushed through the streets as the vision stood semi-imposed over the city itself. He stumbled into a cart, knocking the vendor to the ground. The faerie’s shout was muted as he rushed onward. He gulped in a steadied breath as his feet took him closer to his home.
Within minutes, he reached the door to his red brick townhouse and climbed the stairs. The door slammed against the wall, and the paintings on the wall rattled. He dashed into the foyer and through the doorway on his right, his study, and raised his hands in front of him, reaching…searching.
Howls of agony fill the air as a monstrously large, thorned vine winds its way up and around the tower, drinking the red blood that pours from the wounded sky.
The grain of wood brushed against his fingertips. There is was, his cabinet. He swung the doors open and reached inside, groping until he felt the glassy smoothness. His helmet. It would keep the shadow at bay. He’d devised it with spells of misdirection. It had to work. He slipped it over his head.
The thorns reach their apex and bloom into a crimson colored rose, from the petals of which emerge a monstrous snake that begins to devour the rose and wind its way back down the tower.
Vandermere swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. No. Why wasn’t the helmet working? It had always worked before. Vandermere stumbled towards the chair at his desk and sank into it. The roaring of the ocean deafened him to the sounds of the city.
Song of Shadow Page 4