by Stacey Jay
“Human men also smell like wild hogs and relieve themselves in the street. I prefer the Fey ways, thank you.”
“Let’s see if you say that after your meal tonight,” he says with a laugh. “Not even the Fey make food like this.”
He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, reaching back to catch my arm and pull me behind him, sheltering me with his body as he scans the room. I stay where he’s put me, knowing he must be checking the tavern for possible spies, and try to ignore the heady soap and spice and … Niklaas smell of him.
No matter how much I teased him about it, he never smelled of onions, but he had begun to stink of the road. Now he smells like summer, like warm skin, tall grass, and the breeze off the ocean. He smells like adventure and safety, the familiar and the unknown, woven together, making me long to press my face against the back of his shirt and breathe deep.
Against my will and good sense, I’m beginning to lean in when he turns around.
“The company looks harmless, and there’s a table in the corner so far from the windows it’s nearly night over there already,” he whispers, close enough for his mint and rosemary breath to warm my lips. “Assuming they don’t have a rat problem, we’re safe.”
“Good.” I duck my head. “Let’s go,” I say, voice cracking as I try to move past him.
“You all right?” he asks, stopping me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Fine. Why?”
“You sound a little … strange is all.”
“Just starved to the bone.” I shrug off his hand and punch him lightly in the stomach, but for the first time the chummy gesture feels awkward. I force a smile, praying Niklaas hasn’t noticed. “Come on. Let’s sit. I’m going to eat my age in fish.”
Niklaas snorts. “Just don’t drink your age in beer and we’ll be all right.”
I follow him with my eyes on the ground, doing my best not to attract the attention of the patrons already taking their dinner. Niklaas is right: the group of boys in ratty battle gear commanding the large table at the center of the room and the two old men sharing potatoes near the window look harmless, but it’s best to be careful.
We arrive at the table Niklaas has chosen and I agree it’s perfect—shoved into the shadows at one end of the bar, with only a tiny, flickering candle to light it and no way for anyone, or anything, to spot us from the street outside. It’s probably the safest place we’ve been in days, and the perfect spot to tuck into my first hot meal in over a week.
My stomach growls. “Let’s eat like it’s our last meal,” I say as I pull out my chair.
“Like condemned men,” Niklaas agrees, motioning to the innkeeper’s wife.
And eat we do. And eat and eat, gorging ourselves on butter-smothered whitefish so tender it melts on the tongue, fresh sweet corn bursting with juice, and Niklaas’s much-adored potatoes and onions. By the time we’re finished, my stomach is a hard knot at the center of my body, my heartbeat sluggish with the effort of digesting it all.
“I feel like a tick,” I say, sipping my beer. I’m still on my second mug. Niklaas is on his fifth but doesn’t seem any worse for it. As big as he is, it probably takes more than a few beers to make him drifty.
“A happy tick.” Niklaas holds up the empty bowl of potatoes, motioning for the innkeeper’s wife to bring another.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say. “You’re having more?”
“I am,” he says. “Anything else for you? Another beer?”
I shake my head. “I’m already drifty. I should stop.”
“You’re a better man that I was at your age.” Niklaas sits back, stretching his hands high over his head, as if doing so will make more room in his stomach. “The night I had my first beer, I had my eighth and ninth. I was sick as black magic the next day.”
“I’ve had beer before,” I say with a smile. “And wine and spirits. I like wine best, especially the sweet ice wine at the Marrymeet festivals.”
“I wouldn’t recommend the wine here,” Niklaas says. “Probably closer to vinegar. Goreman isn’t known for its wine.” He shoots his mug a critical look. “Or its beer, for that matter. Too dark and bitter. The beer in Kanvasol is much better.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I wave a hand in the air before resting it on my too-full belly. “No room for wine anyway. My stomach’s on the verge of rebellion.”
“Then you’ll just have to watch while I finish up,” he says, grinning at the innkeeper’s wife as she delivers the potatoes. She is old enough to be his mother, with gray streaks in her auburn hair and lines creasing the sides of her mouth, but she still blushes and giggles when Niklaas thanks her for the wonderful meal.
“And here’s another beer for yeh,” she says, placing a sixth beer in front of Niklaas as she stacks our dirty dishes. “No charge for that one. Just a thank-yeh for taking yer meal here with us tonight.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Niklaas grins one of his wicked grins, the ones that seem to melt women from the inside out.
“Aw now,” she mutters, “call me Nell. All the boys do. We’re like family here. Somebody’s got to keep an eye on all these young ones so far from home.”
“You’re as sweet as your cooking, Nell.” Niklaas caresses her name with his voice, while I try not to roll my eyes. “I’m Niklaas, and this is my friend Ror.”
“Nice to meet yeh both,” she says, though she doesn’t spare me a glance. “Enjoy yer night and keep out of trouble, boys.”
“We will.” Niklaas’s naughty wink is in direct conflict with his words, making Nell giggle again as she turns from the table.
“Ugh.” I shake my head as the woman scurries away, watching her peek back at Niklaas as she collects the dirty dishes from the other tables. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m charming.”
I grunt. “Charming or not, you certainly have an effect on the fairer sex.” My nose wrinkles as I remember the way the whores flung themselves into the street as we rode past their houses, caressing Niklaas’s leg, begging him to frequent their establishment while in town. It was all I could do not to bat their grabby paws away with my staff.
“Jealous again?” Niklaas asks, jaw working as he digs into his potatoes.
For a second I’m startled speechless, until I realize he means jealous of him, not the other women.
“Not in the slightest,” I say with an exaggerated roll of my eyes. “It must be exhausting, having women swooning at your feet all hours of the day.”
“It is,” he says with a put-upon sigh that makes me snort. “Pity me, Ror.”
“I’m serious,” I say, though I can’t help smiling. “How can you be expected to think of women as anything other than giddy things with fluff between their ears when they’re always acting the fool for you?”
“I’m serious, too. I really do wish you’d pity me.” He bats his lashes, making me wonder if he’s feeling those beers after all. “I’m tired of being a wanted man. I’m ready to be married. I swear I will be a good and faithful husband. Won’t you consider putting in a kind word with your sister for me, my good, good friend?” He stabs another forkful of potatoes and shoves them into his mouth, somehow managing to make even chewing look tragic and pitiable.
A part of me wants to laugh away his request, but the other part …
“Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter,” I say, my full stomach beginning to ache. “I’ve tried to tell you, Aurora will … She’ll never agree to marry you.”
“You can’t know that for sure,” he says around a mouthful of food.
“I can.” I stare at the flickering candle, dreading revealing myself tomorrow morning more than ever. “Trust me.”
“No, you can’t.” He drops his fork to the table with a clatter that pulls my eyes from the flames. “You’re her brother, and it’s obvious you love her, but you can’t know everything about her. Just like you can’t know everything about me. Maybe I’ll surprise you. And her. And you,” he says, brow wrinkling. “I already said
‘you,’ didn’t I?”
“You did. I think maybe you’ve—”
“No, listen to me, Ror. Listen. I’m going to tell you some truth.” Niklaas shoves the now-empty bowl of potatoes away. “I know I’ve never met Aurora, but I think your sister and I will understand each other. In a way that’s special. That’s different than just boy and girl and kiss and talk and blah blah blah.”
“Is that right?” I ask, curious though Niklaas is obviously a little drunk and this entire conversation pointless.
“Listen, Ror,” he says, pointing a finger so close to my nose that my eyes cross.
“I’m listening,” I say, trying not to smile.
“My father? He’s a terrible man. Really. Terrible, terrible.” The misery in his voice banishes the urge to grin. Janin knew the Kanvasol princes would never be contenders for a marital alliance, and so my studies of Kanvasola lagged behind the rest, but I’ve heard enough of Niklaas’s childhood stories by now to know he would have been better off being raised by wild dogs than the immortal king.
“Like a devil from the pit,” Niklaas continues, “hovering over me since the day I was born, cursing every moment of my life.” He scowls before washing the words down with a long swig of beer.
“Niklaas, don’t you think you’ve—”
“Aurora knows what that’s like.” He sets his mug back on the table with a thunk. “She knows what it’s like to live in the shadow of a monster, with the beast itself lurking around the corner, ready to pounce and rip her apart. She knows and I know and I think we’ll … get along,” he says, a hopeful note in his voice that makes my heart ache for him.
“Niklaas—”
“And maybe …” He swipes a hand across the back of his mouth. “Well … maybe together we’ll prove that prophecies, and curses, and kings and queens with nothing but evil in their souls aren’t as powerful as people helping each other. People tying their hearts and minds together and telling fate to go stuff itself.”
I watch Niklaas drain his beer and think about what he said. He may be drunk, but he’s also right. I do know what it’s like to live in the shadow of a monster. I do know what it’s like to long for a connection with someone who understands, someone who might help me prove that good people can win in the end, even if their enemies are bigger and stronger and better equipped in every way. But knowing Niklaas and I have more in common than I’ve already assumed only makes the reality of our situation harder to bear.
I try to remind myself that Niklaas would never be interested in a girl like me—a girl so plain she has no trouble passing as a boy, a girl who speaks her mind and fights for what she wants and doesn’t need anyone, male or female, to protect her—but the arguments don’t feel as convincing as they once did. Niklaas likes Ror. He could come to like Aurora, to care about her and laugh with her. And isn’t caring and friendship what makes a marriage work, what makes you wake up years in the future and smile to see your friend’s graying head on the pillow next to yours?
You’ll never know. You will never know that sort of love. And if you do, all you will bring to your marriage bed are shadows and despair.
I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s true. It doesn’t matter if Niklaas could come to care for the real me. It doesn’t matter that I’m beginning to feel something more than friendship for him. My mother’s curse is all that matters, it’s all that will ever matter.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” Niklaas finally asks.
I open my eyes to find him staring intently into his glass, as if it is a crystal ball that might reveal his future. “I think my mother would have liked you,” I say, knowing it’s the least painful truth I can tell.
He looks up, his eyebrows lifted. “Really?”
“She believed what you believe. She thought people working together were the only hope for our world,” I say, remembering the way she held my hands and explained to me how important it was for me to choose kindness whenever I could. “She said it was the love of everyday people that worked miracles.”
“It’s nice that you remember her. I can’t remember a thing from when I was four. Or five …”
“My sister helps. She’s always told me stories.” I hate to lie to him. I know it’s only for one more night, but still … This doesn’t feel like a moment for lies.
His brow wrinkles again. “I don’t remember much of six, either, except for the time I fell asleep in the carpenter’s shed and was locked in for the night. I was so afraid. I was certain the axes would come to life and cut my head off if I went back to sleep.”
I smile. “You had quite an imagination.”
“Still do, I suppose.” He sighs and an unfamiliar lost look creeps into his eyes.
For the first time, he looks like the boy he is instead of the man he’s about to be. I see fear in him, and worry, and how desperately he wants someone to help him banish them both. And for a moment, I wish I could be that person, that I could take him in my arms and kiss his furrowed forehead and tell him that everything will be all right.
“Am I imagining things again, Ror?” he asks. “Am I imagining that you and I might be brothers in more than spirit one day?”
Brothers. It confirms what I’ve been feeling since our third day on the road, that Niklaas and I could be more than good friends, that we could be family if we chose to be. With the exception of Jor, all of my family is chosen family, people I have no relation to by blood, but who I have chosen to love and let love me in return.
I could love Niklaas. But that’s the problem. I could love Niklaas, but I could also love Niklaas. I already care too much to consider risking a kiss the way I did that evening by the hot spring. I’m too close to him now, and if I let myself, I could get even closer.
Dangerously close. At least for him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my throat tight and an unexpected stinging in my nose. “But we will never be anything more than good friends.”
Niklaas brings his fist down on the table, making me jump and a feminine gasp escape my throat. Thankfully, he’s too drunk and/or angry to notice. “I won’t believe it,” he says. “I won’t believe it until she tells me to my face. To my face!”
“Niklaas—”
“You don’t unner-stand,” Niklaas says, his words beginning to slur. “She’s my lass chance. I’ll die without her.”
“You won’t die.” I roll my eyes, his ridiculousness helping lighten the moment.
“I will. I’ll die,” he moans, burying his face in his hands. “Or as good as. And then I’ll never get Haanah away from our father.”
“You’ll be fine, and you’ll find a way to help your sister.” I dig into my vest pocket and drop a few coins on the table before pushing my chair back. “Now let’s get you to your room before you’re too drunk to climb the stairs.”
“You’re mad.” He glares at me beneath lids drooped to half-mast. “I can outdrink men twice my size. I’m not drunk.”
“You’re not sober, either.” I take his arm. “Let’s go.”
“No. I want more potatoes,” he says, jerking his arm free.
“If you eat more potatoes, you’ll explode.” I reclaim his arm and tug him out of his chair. He pulls away again, only to stumble into the empty table next to ours, sending one of the chairs tipping over.
“Uh-oh,” he says, staring at the chair with wide eyes.
“Come on.” I tuck myself close to his side and wrap my arm around his waist. “Lean on me. I’ll help you.”
“Maybe I am a little drunk,” he says, dropping a heavy hand on my shoulder and allowing me to lead him toward the stairs.
“Maybe a little,” I agree in a mild voice, grateful no one seems to be paying us any attention. But I’m sure young men stumble drunk from this room all the time. Half the boys in armor were tripping over their own feet by the time they left for the tournaments, making me hope none of them planned to fight in that condition.
“Sorry, Ror. Didn’t mean to.” Niklaas weaves slig
htly as we reach the first landing. “I never get drunk. Never. Iss the beer’s fault. I’m strong, but that beer must be sssssstrooo-oooong.”
“You are strong,” I say, urging him up the last flight of stairs.
“I am,” he says, sagging against me until I grunt beneath the added weight.
“I know. I’m agreeing with you.” I half drag him down the hall, desperate to get him into his bed before he’s unconscious. If he passes out in the hall, I’ll never be able to carry him to his room.
“You say that like a joke,” he says, “but it’s not. I am very, very ssstroong.”
I resist the urge to laugh, but just barely. “Yes, Niklaas. You’re a massive, manly beast. Now where did you—” My words end in a squeal as Niklaas grabs me—one hand gripping the back of my neck, one clasped high on my thigh—and heaves me into the air above his head. I lift my hands to keep my face from smashing against the beams, but thankfully Niklaas’s arms are too short to lift me all the way to the ceiling.
“See?” He lifts me up and down, up and down, as if I’m a log at a strongman contest.
“Put me down, this second!” I hiss, wary of drawing the attention of anyone already locked in their room. There are a dozen rooms along the hallway and the innkeeper said all of them would be filled.
“And I could lift someone heavier.” Niklaas spins in a circle so fast it’s hard not to squeal again. “You’re too light, Ror. Like a girl, all hollow inside.”
“Girls are not hollow inside.” I slap my hands behind my back, aiming in the general direction of his big, drunken head. “And you’re going to be very, very dead if you don’t. Put. Me. Down!”
“All right, don’t get snappish,” he says, setting me down so suddenly that the world spins and I grab onto the front of his shirt to steady myself.
Unfortunately for us both, at the moment Niklaas isn’t the steadiest port in a storm. I tug at him and he staggers, and a moment later we hit the floor in a tangle of limbs—his elbow knocking my forehead, my knee slamming against his, and his heavy body pinning me to the ground beneath him.