Audette of Brookraven (The Eldentimber Series Book 4)

by Shari L. Tapscott

  I assume from the animal pens and vegetable patches that the rest are houses.

  A few children play outside, and a couple chats under a covered doorway, but most of the villagers seem to have gone inside to stay dry. I don’t blame them. The dirt streets have turned to mud, and it squelches under my boots. Thankfully, I wore a dark copper gown today.

  “Where do we begin?” I ask.

  “The tavern,” Javid immediately answers. My cousin wears an eternal grin, but it grows even brighter now. “If you’re looking for gossip—no matter where you find yourself—you always start at the tavern.”

  Javid’s taller than willowy Grace, but not by much. Instead of offering his wife his arm, he takes her hand and leads her toward the building. The gesture is so sweet, so genuine, it causes a dull ache in my chest.

  Milly strategically places herself next to Barowalt and then feigns surprise when he offers to escort her. I shake my head at her, but she only smiles over her shoulder.

  Rafe steps next to me and extends his elbow. “Your Highness?”

  Smiling at the knight, I slip my hand through his arm. For as long as I can remember, Rafe’s been around, training for the Order, but I don’t know him as well as Keven or even Rogert since Barowalt doesn’t usually send him as a guard when I go places. He’s pleasant, though, even if he’s a little too aware of how good-looking he is. As all the knights do, he towers over me, the epitome of strength and masculinity.

  When we walk into the tavern, more than a few people stop and stare. Still early, there aren’t many patrons in the establishment, but there are more than there would be if it weren’t a gloomy, damp day.

  A barmaid pauses in her task, almost spilling ale over the old man she’s in the middle of serving. A couple of farmers glance over as well. Javid smiles at them all and leads us to a table. Bracken’s too small a village to have much allure to him, and I doubt he’s set foot in this particular tavern before, but he moves as if it’s his favorite haunt.

  Soon, the locals go back to their conversations and food, casting only occasional glances our way instead of gaping outright.

  Chilled, I request tea, and Milly orders heated cider. Javid and Grace ask for a hot black drink made from dried brown beans from Waldren that I’ve never heard of. Barowalt and Rafe end up ordering it as well.

  I take a sip of Barowalt’s when it arrives but wrinkle my nose in disgust. “It’s bitter.”

  Javid breathes in the steam rising from the cup, looking near blissful. “It’s divine.”

  Grace nods in agreement with Javid and sips hers. “It grows on you.”

  Barowalt catches a barmaid after she finishes her sweep of the room. Looking almost beside herself with joy, the girl hurries over the moment Barowalt lifts his hand to get her attention.

  Next to me, Milly takes a sip of her cider, doing her best to ignore the barmaid.

  “We’re passing through,” Barowalt says, “and we’ve heard rumors of a dragon in this area. Is there any truth to this?”

  The girl’s eyes shift about the room, and she leans in close. “Yes, my lord. Old Farmer Brig lost eight pigs a few days ago.”

  Barowalt nods, encouraging her to continue. “Did anyone see anything?”

  She shrugs, helpless. “Brig said he saw a huge, dark creature…but it was late.” She glances around again and lowers her voice. “And he’d had several drinks that night.”

  “Is this the first time something like this has happened around here?” Javid asks, leaning forward to join the conversation.

  The girl nods. “Yes. We’ve never even seen any of the wolves that live in the forests of the north.”

  “Where does the farmer live?” Javid asks.

  “If you look toward the right when you leave the tavern, his cottage is the one at the top of the hill.”

  A customer hollers for her from across the room.

  “Thank you,” Barowalt says, dismissing her.

  She bobs a curtsy, flashes him a shy smile, and rushes off.

  “I suppose we’re going to speak with the farmer?” Milly asks, unimpressed with both our mission and the tiny village.

  Barowalt takes his first drink from the cup in front of him. He wrinkles his nose at the dark beverage, gives it a suspicious look, and then drains the rest of it.

  I cringe. How is he able to stomach it?

  As soon as he sets the cup down, my brother rises, ready to leave even though we’ve just arrived.

  After taking a few hasty sips of my tea, I rise as well. It’s begun to rain again. Milly groans as we leave the dry safety of the tavern and flips her cloak’s hood over her hair.

  The farmer’s cottage is too close to bother with saddling the horses, but too far to walk in the rain. Apparently not noticing the muck and puddles, Barowalt strides up the hill. Milly frowns. Her pretty hazel eyes flash with irritation, but she scurries off after him.

  Grace and Javid don’t seem to notice the rain at all. Once we’re free of the village, they stop at a small cow pond and begin to speak animatedly about some creature or plant or whatever it is the scholarly types find fascinating.

  By the time we reach the cottage, the bottom of my skirt and my boots are filthy. Small bits of grass and weeds cling to the saturated fabric. Hopefully there will be a good laundry service in Constelita.

  After leaving the cow pond behind, Grace and Javid catch up to us just as Barowalt knocks on the door. We wait several moments, but there’s no answer. Looking put out, Barowalt knocks again.

  This time, after a few minutes, an elderly farmer answers the door. Looking like he hasn’t used a comb in ages, his disheveled hair lies this way and that, sticking straight up in some places. The tunic he wears is wrinkled and smudged—I’m not sure if he’s changed it in days, and he reeks of alcohol.

  The farmer’s red-rimmed eyes travel over us, his expression wary and guarded. Instead of offering a greeting, he simply stands there, waiting for us to divulge what we’re doing on his doorstep.

  “Sir,” Barowalt says, slipping into the pleasant persona he rarely wears. “We’re investigating the livestock attacks, and we’ve heard of the tragedy that recently befell your farm.”

  The man’s eyes flicker over us, his brow wrinkling with distrust. “The king already sent a band of knights to question me.”

  Grace pulls a journal and charcoal from the folds of her cloak. Looking terribly official, she steps forward. “And we’re here to follow up.”

  “Is that right?” Anger flashes over the man’s face. “Even after the leader of the band kindly informed me that I likely left the gate open and my pigs were not eaten but ran off themselves? That it wasn’t a beast I saw, but the clouded clarity of a drunken stupor?”

  I’m not certain he isn’t drunk right now, in all honesty.

  Grace makes sympathetic noises. “We’re here because we do believe you. I know the entire ordeal has been trying for you—”

  “It was the stuff of nightmares.” The man opens the door wider and holds out a quivering hand for us to study. “I’ve had the shakes ever since.”

  I’m still holding onto my drunk theory.

  “Well, of course you have,” Grace says, her expression genuine and concerned. “Perhaps, if it wouldn’t be too taxing for you, you could tell us, in your own words, what happened?”

  The man, again, looks at our large group with distrust.

  “If it’s all right with you,” Barowalt says, “we’ll take a look around out here.”

  Liking that better, the man nods and only Javid and Grace go inside the cottage. Barowalt, Milly, Rafe, and I walk around a lush herb garden toward the animal pens in the back. A few cows graze at one end of a fenced pasture, and a small herd of sheep stay at the other. Behind a gate that stands carelessly ajar, the pigpens are empty.

  Barowalt and Rafe stride into the enclosure, not sparing a thought for their fine boots. Together, they stare at the ground, thinking.

  I don’t see anything. The mud
looks wallowed in, and the empty trough is crusted with the remains of several-day-old slop. Wrinkling my nose, I turn away. From what I can tell, there’s no blood, no obvious signs of a struggle.

  Personally, I can see why the knights would think the man imagined the whole ordeal. Except he’s not the only one. Could news from the other villages have already spread to Bracken? Was the farmer hoping for attention—could he have purposely let his pigs loose? And if so, why? Eight pigs is a hefty loss for a few brief moments of infamy.

  When I turn to Milly to ask her what her thoughts are, I find her examining her cloak’s embroidered hem, which is now smeared with mud. She’s looking particularly put out.

  The rain continues to fall, not in great torrents, but in a soft, persistent drizzle. The clouds have lowered, and they churn in the village below the hill, soft white wisps twining around buildings. There’s something beautiful about it. Except for the patter of the rain, it’s perfectly quiet, serene.

  Movement catches my eye on the road. An older woman makes her way toward the cottage. Her cloak is made of brown cloth, and it’s dark from the rain. Her skirt and blouse are cut in a simple peasant style, but they were obviously made with care.

  When she notices us standing near the pig pens, she frowns and hurries forward.

  “Good day,” she calls when she gets close enough. Despite her pleasant words, she doesn’t look overly happy to see us. “We’ve already been questioned if that’s what you’re here for.”

  Barowalt explains our business, keeping his expression as friendly as it was earlier.

  Her shoulders sag when she sees no malice in our faces, and she glances at the cottage, worried. “He hasn’t been the same in the last few days—I’ve barely been able to pull him from bed.”

  “Are you his wife?” Milly asks the clean, respectable woman, incredulous.

  The woman nods, pursing her lips at my friend. “He’s a good man, a hard worker. Whatever it was that he saw—it caused this bout of melancholy.” She motions to the house. “You might not believe him, but I tell you—he saw something that night.”

  “Where were you?” I ask, hoping to keep my voice kind.

  “I’m the midwife,” she answers. “I was helping with a complicated birth.” She lowers her voice. “The attack happened just before I arrived home.”

  A chill runs through me at the thought of this woman walking back from the village as the creature—dragon, wizard, whatever it may be—was roaming about.

  Javid, Grace, and the farmer step out of the front door. The man’s eyes are wild, and as he speaks, he waves his hands back and forth.

  Worry shadows the woman’s face. She turns to us, lowering her voice. “He’s a respected man in the village, but no one believes him. Please don’t make the same mistake. Whatever it is—it’s still out there somewhere.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  More rain welcomes us to Constelita, the large port city not far from Bracken. The streets are bustling despite the weather, and we make our way through them slowly. Several peddlers set up booths in the main square, and people huddle under canvas canopies, sorting through vegetables and wares. The city is the trade hub of the massive island kingdom, and even today, in the beginning of the winter season, it’s bustling. It takes forever to reach our destination.

  The Ocean Ruby Inn is one of the largest I’ve seen since arriving in Ptarma. Towering over the streets, it’s an impressive four-story building made from the familiar white Ptarmish stone. Wrought-iron balconies decorate the exterior, and trailing vines boasting brightly-colored flowers twist through the railings.

  Our carriage stops in front of the covered entrance, allowing us to exit in the safety of the shelter. Javid gives instructions to the driver, and then the men escort us through the entryway. We exchange pleasantries with the armored guards as we pass, which they return before they again face forward, stoic and solemn.

  The inn’s exterior is nothing compared to the main foyer. A fountain bubbles in the middle of the room, and red and orange koi swim amongst the aquatic flowers. Above us, a glass skylight lets in light, though it’s dim today due to the clouds. A massive stone fireplace covers an entire wall, but, even with the inclement weather, it’s still too warm for a fire. Instead, the innkeepers have placed hundreds of candles on various-sized stands inside the fireplace. Their flames flicker, cheerful and warm.

  Patrons lounge on settees and upholstered chairs, and maids scurry over the marbled floors, serving drinks and tending to requests.

  At my side, Rafe whistles low. “Quite the inn.”

  Grace nods, her eyes lighting up. “It’s a favorite of ours.”

  “We try to come to Constelita at least once a season,” Javid adds, “to visit the library and sketch the marine life on the coast.”

  Milly says something, but I don’t pay her any attention.

  There, lounging on the settee closest to the fountain, is Irving. His eyes are on me, and a small smile spreads over his face when our gazes meet.

  Even though I knew he’d find us, my stomach still flutters.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he calls as soon as the others in my party notice him. He rises and meets us.

  Barowalt flashes me a look. His temporarily elevated opinion of Irving plummeted when the prince refused the invitation to join the Order.

  “Irving,” Javid says, his voice pleasantly surprised. “What brings you here?”

  “How can you come to Ptarma and not visit Constelita?” Irving says, but his eyes flicker to mine, revealing his true motivation.

  “Yes, how?” Barowalt says, his voice dry and unamused.

  “Are you staying here as well?” Irving asks.

  “We were—” Barowalt starts, but Milly jabs him in the side with her elbow.

  “We are. What a pleasant surprise,” she says and then turns to me. “Audette, weren’t you just saying you were hoping to stretch your legs? I’m sure Irving would be happy to escort you while we secure rooms.”

  “I don’t mind escorting the princess,” Rafe begins, but he pauses when Milly shoots him a look of death. “But…I should stay here for now…?”

  She nods, approving, and turns back to Irving with her brows raised with expectation.

  “Of course,” Irving says, stepping to my side. “I’d be happy to.”

  Barowalt shakes his head, irritated, and makes his way toward the counter along the back. The others follow, and laughter shines in Grace and Javid’s eyes as they pass.

  “How was Bracken?” Irving asks when the others are out of earshot.

  I accept his offered arm, and we dawdle through the foyer hall before we slip through a back door to the gardens. “We didn’t find anything in the way of clues, and the farmer was too drunk to take much of what he said as truth.”

  “Do you think he’s lying?” Irving asks.

  After thinking about his question for a moment, I say, “No, but his report was of little help. Like the others, he claimed all he saw was a shadow creature.”

  “Shadows don’t eat pigs.”

  I nod. “But perhaps the shadow was a distraction while something of flesh and blood spirited the creatures away?”

  “Are you still thinking it may be a wizard?”

  “It’s what I’m leaning toward.”

  “What would a wizard want with livestock?” Irving asks, and then he leans close. “And how would obtaining pigs help him exterminate Elden’s unicorn population?”

  I shake my head, frustrated. “They don’t seem related, do they?”

  “Maybe they’re not.”

  And that is a possibility I’m going to have to consider. Just because the two events took place at the same time, doesn’t necessarily mean they’re linked. It could simply be a coincidence.

  But I doubt it.

  The rain has let up, and the moisture in the air is now a low-lying mist. We walk through the gardens, and it feels as if we’ve been transported to a kingdom in the clouds. The air is da
mp and cool, and the bright colors have lost their vibrancy in the expanse of gray.

  “What are your plans for the evening?” Irving asks after several silent moments.

  It begins to drizzle again, and I pull my hood up. “Grace is eager to visit the library. I’m assuming we’ll be there until late.”

  We stop in front of a tall marble statue. Despite the rain, other couples stroll the garden. A man and woman, a little older than us, smile as they, too, pause by the statue.

  “How do you like this weather?” the man asks us, shaking his head.

  The woman beside him frowns at the sky. “I’m afraid they’ll cancel the Ships’ Return Festival.”

  Irving shifts closer. “We’re not from around here. When is the festival?”

  “It begins tonight,” the man says. “Well, it was supposed to. Every year the Marquis of Cravet imports fireworks and sets them off over the harbor. There’s a tournament the following day—jousting, archery, hand-to-hand. The usual.”

  “And during the tournament, there are wine tastings and baked goods competitions.” The woman smiles. “In the evening, they roast dozens of boars.”

  Irving’s interest is peaked. “Who can compete in the events?”

  “Anyone who wants to. It’s open to all.” Friendly, the man takes my hand and bows. “I’m Lord Murry of Rewn.” He straightens and motions to the woman next to him. “And this is my wife, Lamilla.”

  I curtsy, and, careful to keep my title to myself, say, “Audette.”

  Next to me, Irving nods. “Irving.”

  When he says his name, they both narrow their eyes slightly, probably placing him. The prince only smiles, not offering more.

  “It’s a shame the rains moved in before the festival,” Murry says. “It usually starts later in the season.”

  Irving glances at the sky. “There are still a few hours before dark. Perhaps it will clear out?”

  Murry and Lamilla glance at the clouds, obviously not convinced.

  After a few more minutes, we say our goodbyes and go inside to join the others. They aren’t in the foyer hall, so they must have gone to the rooms.