“I—yes, sure.” That explained why I’d seen no light coming from the windows.
The floorboards creaked as he strode, hardened leather boots scuffing against the floor, to a counter in the inn’s common room. A row of small wooden casks stood on a table behind him, copper taps plugged into the bottom. Most nights, this room was probably full of travelers drinking ale. Foreigners, even.
“My writ allows me flexibility in what kind of payment I’ll accept,” Fishel said as he pulled out a heavy book and plucked a quill from the counter. “Your accent is Provincial, so I gather you’ll pay in tin scrip.”
“I—well, I’m not sure what I have.” I lifted Havialo’s saddlebags onto the counter—before entering the city, I’d switched my panniers for them, keeping just the cloak and my small knife from my old bags. But I hadn’t sorted through Havialo’s possessions because sunset had been so near. I unbuckled the leather straps and started rummaging.
The proprietor’s face immediately stilled. He laid the quill on the counter. “Now I’m a respectable man. I’d hate to turn a girl away on a night like this. But you’re not the only one at risk here.”
I chewed my lip, confused. Did he think I was trying to sell something else? My virtue maybe? My fingers brushed the small blade Havialo had given me. Though scarcely larger than a fish-scaling knife, the handle was made from mother-of-pearl, and I figured it’d be payment for one night. I pulled it out and laid it on the counter. “The person who gave me this said it was good steel.”
Fishel laid his palms on the counter. “You’re new here, a Prov. That much is obvious. But surely the rules are the same in your home. Scrip or foreign currency for services. Everything else is black market.”
“I suppose I hadn’t thought of it. We only have tin scrip back home.”
He shook his head. “If the inspectors turn up tomorrow and I’ve let you stay without paying real scrip or coin, I’ll have my writ revoked. My choices will be exile or starvation.”
He cast me a pitying look as he shut the book. “Best I can offer is to let you shelter behind the building. If you’re quiet, you may escape notice until dawn.”
I gritted my teeth as I set the knife aside and started pulling everything from the saddlebags. Travel rations. Waterskins. A length of ribbon—his daughter’s? I thought back to the steel coin Havialo had flipped to the traveling herbalist. He’d pulled it from a pouch inside his tunic. My hopes pooled at my feet—why had I even imagined he would have carried his money in his saddlebags?
“Would it matter if Parveld sent me?” I asked, out of ideas.
At once, the man’s eyes lit. “And that, my girl, is the best news I’ve heard all day. He told me his sister would be arriving before Chilltide. You must be so weary after journeying all the way from Ioene! Fortunately, I’ve been holding your room since he first laid down the coin for it. I hope you don’t mind a cold meal.”
I stood frozen. Sister? Ioene?
Fishel hurried around the counter and laid a hand on my back, urging me toward the stairs. “If anyone bothers you—imperial inspectors for instance—speak of the wonders crafted in Ioene’s forges. It never fails to impress. I hear your home estate with the nightvining wine grapes is lovely.”
Recovering from my shock, I took a hesitant step toward the stairs. Why hadn’t Parveld told me the extent of his arrangements? Should it worry me that he’d planned this so much in advance? And even if it did, were the streets a safer choice?
The questions whirled, but a shout and thump from outside decided me. “I—yes. My family has done quite well as wine makers. Parveld has been searching for export contracts with the Atal elite. I’m looking forward to hearing about his progress.”
Fishel smiled as he passed me to take the lead up the stairs. “Wonderful. I believe you’ll do well here once the dust settles. So to speak.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Parveld
Beside the remains of a simple shepherd's hut
FULL NIGHT CLOAKED the land, hiding the reminders of the evening’s earthquake. Parveld sat near the pile of toppled stones that had been his shepherd’s hut a few hours ago. Before him, a small fire crackled.
He held the silver-and-gold bracelet on his lap. Age burnished the metal, tiny scratches marring the surfaces. Despite his regular efforts with a polishing rag, tarnish gathered in the creases where the strands of metal entwined. He ran a finger over the curves then turned it over. As he watched, the word Savra appeared, etched into the metal.
I know. I should have given it to her. There was so much happening, he said into the aether.
Centuries of practice, yet you’re still such a terrible liar, said the spirit of the woman infused into the metal. A tendril of affection curled out from the bracelet, wrapping him in an ethereal hug. Another presence offered friendly amusement, the sort of teasing only trusted friends could get away with.
Parveld smiled. Okay fine. I tried. But I just wasn’t ready. You two are all I have, now.
It’s not forever, two voices spoke at once, echoing in Parveld’s mind. The woman laughed and continued alone. Besides, Savra is pretty. Maybe you don’t have to be alone in the mortal realm either.
“Right…” Parveld said. “If the centuries haven’t helped me learn to lie, they’ve taught me even less about speaking to women. Savra was nervous around me, to put it mildly. Anyway… I saw a different future for her.”
A potential future. Nothing is certain with the tides of fate.
It isn’t going to happen, Lilik. You know that. And I’m okay alone.
A wave of acceptance flowed from the bracelet. Fair enough, my friend.
Back to the issue, tonight was too close, the man inside the silver strand added. If she hadn’t made it to the Graybranch…
Do you think I should have pressed her to stay with me? Parveld asked. She even asked why I didn’t. But she was so guarded… And it felt right for her to continue into Jaliss.
I think you should have given her the bracelet as we agreed one hundred eighty-seven years ago, the woman, Lilik, said, sending a thread of amusement into his mind along with the thought.
Parveld pressed the metal band close to his heart. All right. But promise me you’ll be safe. I mean to join you both in the aether someday.
Silence followed his words. Somewhere on the grassy terrace, a sheep bleated.
I can’t promise. But I can’t wait to be together again. As long as there’s a sliver of hope, I won’t stop trying. Even after that hope vanishes, in fact.
Heart aching over the coming goodbye, Parveld stood. He grabbed his walking stick from beside the fire and poured a measure of water over the blaze.
One step at a time, he started the descent to the plateau and the city upon it.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Kostan
In the streets of Jaliss
THOUGH I NEEDED only my fingers to count the number of hours I’d spent in Jaliss, the devastation in the city was a sword thrust through my heart. Remorse draped me like a cloak of lead. I’d spent my life hating the Empire and disdaining the idea of ruling, but now I felt as if the suffering in Jaliss was my responsibility.
My time in the mountains had changed me. The citizens of Jaliss were no longer subjects of the Empire. They were mine. My vassals. My responsibility. I had no choice but to Ascend the throne, and every moment between now and that ascent was my burden to bear. Every blow from a protector’s cudgel would be as if I’d swung the club myself. Every rattle and tremor of the earth’s Breaking was my fault.
Until I’d restored the Heart of the Empire to the throne, I would not sleep easily. Kei’s death had taught me the consequences of shirking my responsibility. The collapse of Stormshard’s cavern had only sealed my destiny.
I had to take back Steelhold. Starting by visiting the Graybranch Inn in hopes of finding news from Azar.
At the edge of the Merchant’s Quarter, the street known as
the Corridor of Ascent led to the trail that climbed Steelhold’s spire. I stopped to regard my rightful home. The rising sun glowed on the fortress’s walls, giving the impression that the Hold burned. And if I needed to torch the fortress to unseat the conspirators, I would.
Patting my horse’s neck, I clucked to him and turned his head for the Splits.
As we descended through the city, exhaustion fell over me. I could only imagine how my mount—Chaser, Falla had called him—suffered. We’d been riding at full gallop since I’d abandoned Evrain and his friends. The overhanging tree hadn’t been far from the boundary between mountains and grassland, and I’d spent most of the night on the open road, chasing the moon across the Atalan Plateau. When the sky behind me paled with predawn light, sweat had dripped from Chaser’s flanks. But he’d never hesitated. Even now, he plodded with steady feet across the rubble-strewn streets.
I shook my head at every fallen wall and overturned cart we passed. It would take months to rebuild Jaliss. How long until the next quake? Or worse, what would happen when a gash like the Gray Gorge opened in the city’s heart?
I had to stop this.
If the despair had been palpable in the Merchant’s Quarter and the wealthier residential blocks, the mood in the Splits was abysmal. Men and women sat on stoops, staring blankly with hunger obvious in their sunken cheeks. If they were curious why a young man wearing just one boot was riding bareback through the Splits, they didn’t show it. By cutting off Steelhold, the Minister Brevt and his allies were strangling the city.
What was their purpose? Were they waiting to complete their coup until the Provs were too hungry and desperate to care who sat on the throne as long as the flow of scrip resumed?
Anger simmering in my chest, I nudged poor Chaser on.
Despite my expectations, the Graybranch Inn looked more suited to the upper districts than the squalor of the Splits. I understood why Ilishian had chosen the establishment. The construction was sound. No doubt the rooms were secure and clean.
When I reined up out front, the fatigue that had been chasing me slammed into my body. I swung my leg over Chaser’s hindquarters and dropped. When my feet touched the ground, my knees buckled. I landed hard and sprawled. Flat on my back, I stared into a clear, Atalan sky marred only by the imposing lines of Steelhold.
I rolled onto an elbow and slowly gained my feet. My knees wobbled and ached. The first steps were agony. I looped Chaser’s reins around a post supporting the porch awning then stared at the intimidating rise of the steps.
I took a moment to rub the white blaze on Chaser’s nose. He snorted in appreciation before lowering his muzzle to the trough before him. Making a silent vow to find him a bucket of the finest oats, I took a deep breath and planted a foot on the first stair.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Savra
The common room of the Graybranch Inn
“GOOD MORNING, SAVRA,” Fishel said with a smile when he exited the inn’s kitchen. “Your brother came by in the night. He dropped a package through our courier slot.”
A dart of paranoia sent me sitting bolt upright. “He what?”
“The letter explained that he expected a busy week of negotiations. With the quake, many Atal families have suffered losses in their wine cellars. He didn’t wish to wake you, but wanted to return the bracelet he brought from Ioene to remember you.”
I was seated at a simple table in the common room, the scroll case with my ledger placed before me. Before leaving the simple room I’d been given the night before, I’d adjusted the straps on a saddlebag. It made a workable satchel, though if not for the chaos in the city, I guessed it would draw a few stares. At the moment, I was trying to figure out whether I should tuck the scroll case inside—it was too long and would jut out the top—or whether to remove the ledger from the case and fold it to fit in the saddlebag.
After waking, I’d thought about my next steps. My father was close. I’d come this far. If I couldn’t find him or contact Stormshard after a week or two of searching, I could still try to find a way back to Cosmal Province. It had been weeks since I left Numintown—I doubted I’d gain anything by rushing back to hunt for traces of my mother and sister. Better to learn what I could of my father first. Plus, it would give me time to think about Parveld’s offer of training.
Along with a wooden bowl filled with porridge, Fishel set a bracelet on the table. Formed of strands of silver and gold twisted together, the band had a flat area stamped in the middle. A picture of an island had been etched on the disk, a steep-sided mountain with something spraying from the top. The metals had been pressed such that the areas of silver were the sea while the flattened gold strand ran through the sky. Fire and water. Vitality and tranquility.
“Reminds you of home, I’m sure,” Fishel said, pointing to the picture on the disk. “I hear Ioene’s eruptions are amazing on dark nights. Not dangerous—the lava never spills more than a short distance down the mountain. But with the aurora flaring above, it’s supposed to be a wonder that an adventurer never forgets.”
He stared at me pointedly. After a moment, I nodded. “Ioene. Yes, it does remind me of my home.”
With a nod of approval, Fishel folded his hands before him. “I apologize for the limited fare. I’ve had a hard time getting fresh produce since the... incident at Steelhold. I imagine things will only get worse. Fortunately, I have an expansive food cellar. As long as you don’t mind oats and pickles. Oh! I nearly forgot.”
With a flourish, Fishel deposited a spoon on the table, then winked. “There’s a pitcher of water and cups on the counter. I’ll have tea out shortly.”
As he turned for the kitchen, I glanced at the spoon but my attention snapped back to the bracelet. I wasn’t sure whether to put it on, throw it away, or hide it where I wouldn’t have to think about it. As I peered closer, I noticed writing where the bracelet could be squeezed together for a tighter fit.
Savra.
I dropped the bracelet as if it had burned me and snatched the spoon, scooping a thick measure of porridge. The sooner I got to the Hall of Registry and took control of my life, the better.
As I slipped the bite into my mouth—despite Fishel’s apologies, the porridge was quite good—the door opened. My eyes widened when the young man stumbled through the door. He looked so exhausted that another step would send him sprawling on the floor.
The squeal of my chair against the floor sent a shiver crawling up my spine. Despite it, I ran forward to catch the newcomer if he toppled.
He looked up.
My heart stopped.
I felt like I’d known him forever, though I’d never seen his face before. The man blinked and sagged against the door. Bells jingled merrily as the latch clicked shut.
I was still staring when Fishel banged his way out of the kitchen, tea set on a tray.
“Welcome to the Graybranch Inn,” he said, setting down the tray and stepping around the counter.
Fishel made three paces before the young man toppled to the floor.
***
Together, Fishel and I wrangled the new arrival off the floor and helped him toward the table where I’d been eating breakfast. As the man stumbled forward, arm over my shoulder, I noticed he was wearing just one boot. A dirty bandage wrapped the other foot though it seemed to bear weight.
Once seated, he slumped forward, elbows planted on the table, head loose on his shoulders.
I couldn’t stop staring and blushed when Fishel caught me at it.
The innkeeper pulled out a chair and sat, stretching his legs out. “Well then, you’re the second traveler who’s arrived at the Graybranch since the quake—and looking even worse off than this young lady did. I can’t understand why anyone would deem it a good idea to enter the city right now.”
“I’m looking for someone,” the arrival said. I got the sense that the effort of moving his lips was almost more than he could manage. With an obvious struggle, he pushed
off the table to lean back in the chair. The weight of his head followed behind, rolling up off his chest. As it did, his simple tunic tugged to the side, exposing a silver chain encircling his neck.
When our eyes met, his widened. The newcomer held my stare, and it was all I could do to force my gaze away. He had dark eyes, typical Atal, and chestnut hair streaked with hints of blond. Why did I feel I knew him? Again, I felt blood coloring my cheeks.
After a moment, Fishel snapped his fingers in the man’s face. A flash of surprise crossed the man's weary features as if he’d forgotten the innkeeper was there.
“Other than Savra here, my remaining guests left early this morning,” Fishel said. “Bound for Anisel’s ports and trading prospects in cities not toppled by a recent quake. So if it was a foreign merchant you intended to meet, I suggest you climb back on your horse and ride for the Provinces. Not that you’re in a condition for it.”
“I’ll take a room, then,” the man said. His eyes had returned to me.
Fishel sighed. “Will you be paying in scrip, steel coin or foreign currency? You’re Atal if I were to guess, but as long as you can provide papers that verify a foreign birth, I’ll accept whatever currency you’re offering. I’m no clerk, so don’t expect me to recognize a forgery. And that’s exactly what I’ll tell the inspectors.”
As if Fishel’s words reached the man from some great distance, he blinked, slow comprehension dawning on his face. After a moment, he patted his pockets.
Fishel rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. You don’t have any coin.”
“Well... I—”
“Sorry, friend. I can offer you water before you leave.”
Heart of the Empire (The Broken Lands Book 1) Page 19