by Jayne Castel
He rose to his feet, loosening the muscles in this neck and shoulders as he did so. Across the room, the sailor did the same. Like him, his opponent was naked to the waist, dressed only in leather breeches and boots. Fighting was safer that way: no hidden knives or sharp edges to cut yourself on.
Ardan slapped him on the back in a wordless gesture of good luck, and Dain walked out across the floor to meet his opponent. Sawdust, dark with spilled ale and other less savory liquids, gave underfoot as he walked.
The two men met each other in the center of the tavern.
“The best of four rounds,” Bart called out from behind the bar. “No weapons—fists only.”
This close to his opponent, Dain could see that the sailor had a sallow, slightly pock-marked skin and a hard, intimidating stare. He bore faded scars across his torso and arms, and carried himself with cool confidence.
Dain steadied his breathing and squared his stance ready for the bell to ring.
Ardan’s right … I’ll need to watch this one.
“He broke my nose.”
Ardan peered at Dain, his gaze narrowing. “Don’t know … he might have. It’s hard to tell … it’s so swollen.”
“It wasn’t a question, I’m telling you he broke it.” Dain’s voice was muffled by the linen he held up to staunch the bleeding.
Ardan grinned, pulling back before he shrugged. “It was bound to happen one of these days. You were too pretty anyway.”
Dain laughed and then winced as the act hurt him. He’d nearly lost that fight. He glanced across at the sailor, who had been dragged off the floor and was now leaning, forgotten, against the wall while he regained consciousness. As Dain watched, someone threw a bucket of ice-cold water over the sailor. The man jerked awake, spluttering and snarling.
He can fight.
Dain ached all over. His jaw throbbed, his nose pulsated, and his belly still hurt from the vicious punch his opponent had nearly bested him with. He felt slightly dizzy, and his ears were ringing.
He hadn’t lost a fight in a while, but it had taken every inch of skill he had acquired over the past year to beat that sailor.
“I wouldn’t like to meet him in a dark alley,” he quietly admitted to Ardan.
“I agree,” his friend replied. “That’s one victory you had to work hard for.”
“I think I need to sit down.”
“Come on.” Ardan steered him away from the edge of the ring, as Bart readied the crowd for the next fight. “Let’s find a booth and get ourselves some supper. All this violence has given me an appetite.”
Dain slid into the wooden booth at the back of the tavern and let out a groan. He would be livid with bruises tomorrow. Often he was able to hide his fight injuries from his parents, but they would be furious when they saw him in the morning.
A blonde serving wench stepped up to their table, her gaze settling upon Dain first. That didn’t usually happen. It was Ardan—big muscled with rugged good looks—who women spoke to first. Dain had noticed this serving wench before, although she had never paid him any attention until tonight. Until she’d seen Dain fight. Her blue eyes shone as she leaned over the table, revealing a pert, creamy cleavage. Dain inhaled the scent of warm skin and rosemary. He liked that smell. She was a comely girl.
“Drink or supper?” she asked.
Dain removed the linen from under his nose. “Both.”
“What’s for supper?” Ardan asked.
The serving wench shot Ardan an irritated look before settling her attention back on Dain. “Roast goat and turnip pottage,” she told him.
“Two plates, please,” Dain replied, “and tankards of ale to wash it down.”
The girl nodded, although she did not hasten away to fetch their suppers. Instead, she lingered, her slender hand covering his on the table top. “You fought well,” she said, her voice low and intimate. “I loved watching you.”
Dain heard Ardan choke back a snigger but ignored him. There had to be some benefits to having your nose broken. “Thank you,” he replied with a grin. “What’s your name?”
“Muriela.”
“I’m Dain. Pleased to meet you.”
She leaned closer, the scent of her nearly overwhelming his senses. “Hopefully, we can share an ale together later?”
Dain smiled, his gaze holding hers. “I’d like that.”
Muriela returned his smile, before she drew back and walked away from the table. Dain watched her go, his gaze on her gently swaying hips.
“Looks like you won’t be sleeping alone tonight,” Ardan observed.
Dain glanced back at his friend, to find him smirking. He shrugged. “Only if she’s got a room we can share … you know what my parents are like. Last time I brought a girl back to The Grey Anchor, Ma went berserk.”
“Why don’t you move out? Join the Port Guard like me … they’re still looking for recruits.”
Dain stifled a sigh. His friend didn’t know just how much he was tempted. “You know I can’t. I’m their only child—they rely on me.”
Ardan pulled a face. “So you’re going to take over the inn then?”
“It’s not such a bad job.” Dain didn’t know why he defended his parents’ livelihood to Ardan, but he still did. Every time.
“It is if your heart’s not in it. You’re not made to be an inn-keeper.”
Muriela brought the tankards of ale and plates of supper then. The smell of roasted goat and overcooked pottage made Dain feel slightly queasy. He wasn’t sure he could manage a mouthful of it.
However, he had a raging thirst. He exchanged a look with her before taking a deep draft of ale. Revived, he leaned back against the hard wooden bench seat and felt the tension of the fight drain out of him. He was too tired to have this discussion with Ardan, especially since he agreed with him. Still, his loyalty to his parents made it a sore topic between them.
“My parents have hired a new cook,” he said finally. “She arrived today.”
Ardan grunted into his ale, clearly not interested.
“She’s comely.”
That got Ardan’s attention. “What? Like your new friend Muriela?”
The envy in Ardan’s voice took Dain aback. Since Ardan received most of the female attention when they were out, it surprised Dain that it bothered Ardan if a woman preferred Dain. Despite his bluff exterior, Ardan was more insecure around women than he let on.
“No, quite different,” Dain replied. “She’s smaller, curvier, with skin like milk, brown eyes, and dark red hair. She’s even got freckles.”
Ardan grinned, his bitterness forgotten. “Sounds delicious—I might pay The Anchor a visit tomorrow eve.”
Dain snorted. “Good luck to you. I said she was comely … I didn’t say she was friendly. Every time I tried talking to her today she ignored me.”
Ardan’s grin widened. “A woman with taste then.”
The moon was setting when Dain finally left The Barnacle and began the steep climb up Harbor Way to his home.
Muriela had been disappointed when he’d dislodged her from his lap and made his excuses. She shared a room in the attic of The Barnacle with three other serving wenches—and he didn’t feel like weathering his mother’s rage a second time. She’d berate him about his face as it was.
It was a cold, still morning. Port Needle glowed under the many lamps that lined its steep streets.
The night was not always safe. Outside Port Needle, shadow creatures stalked the darkness. They didn’t often venture into townships these days, but folk were cautious nonetheless, lighting torches and lanterns to ward them off. Each night the settlements upon the Isle of Orin glowed like beacons, making it relatively safe to walk the streets after dark.
Harbor Way didn’t usually pose much of a challenge to Dain, but after a tough fight and too many tankards of ale, it felt as if he was scaling a mountain. He’d not managed to eat much supper—the goat and pottage hadn’t been good anyway, and he was never hungry after a fight—but now
his belly rumbled. By the time he crested the hill and walked the last few yards to The Grey Anchor, he felt ravenous.
He’d need something to eat, before he crawled onto his sleeping pallet and let exhaustion claim him.
Dain entered the inn through the back entrance, crossing a shadowed courtyard and letting himself into the common room. The kitchen lay just off it. Their previous cook, Bruina—the elderly woman who had worked for his parents for years before moving out to be with her son in Waybrook—always used to leave some bread or left-overs from supper out for him. He doubted the new cook would have.
A glow emanated from the kitchen door, causing him to slow his step. Usually, his mother left a lantern lit in the kitchen overnight, just in case anyone needed something. Yet it looked as if she had left all the lanterns alight. The sound of scrubbing alerted him that someone was working inside.
Dain frowned. Who would be up at this hour? He stepped into the threshold and halted, his gaze settling upon Lilia.
She was bent over one of the wooden benches that ringed the kitchen, scrubbing furiously at its oaken surface. Intent on her task, she hadn’t noticed his arrival, and so Dain took a moment to study her.
Lilia was a pretty wench, there was no denying it. He liked her mane of auburn curls, which she wore up in a messy bun this morning, and her small, soft body that moved in a deft, purposeful manner. Lilia’s heavy skirts swished as she worked. Her delicately-featured face was flushed, her full lips slightly pursed in concentration. She had rolled up the woolen sleeves of her under tunic and the laces of her bodice were slightly loose, revealing full breasts.
Still admiring her, Dain leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest.
“A bit early for that, isn’t it?”
Lilia gasped and dropped the hog-bristle brush. She turned to him, her brown eyes huge, her hand clutching at her heart as if he’d half frightened her to death.
“Don’t creep up on folk like that,” she hissed.
“Sorry—I wasn’t expecting anyone to be up this early.”
Her gaze narrowed as she stared back at him. “Shadows … what happened to your face?”
Dain pushed himself up off the door frame and sauntered into the kitchen. He saw her body stiffen. She did not like him walking in here; just one day on the job and this was already her domain. Dain pretended not to notice.
“I fight at The Barnacle once a week,” he told her, opening the door to the pantry and stepping inside. “You should come watch sometime.”
“You brawl for coin?” The disgust in her voice was evident. It didn’t surprise him; most women weren’t like Muriela.
“When I win, I’m compensated,” he admitted, “but I mostly fight because I like it.”
“Why?”
“Makes me feel alive.”
“Helping run this inn isn’t exciting enough for you then?”
He huffed. “It’s my parents’ dream … not mine.”
Dain retrieved some bread and cheese from the pantry and emerged to find Lilia standing a few feet away, hands on hips.
“Do you make a habit of taking food without asking?”
Dain laughed. “Bruina didn’t mind. She used to leave me out treats … you can start doing the same if you want.”
Her mouth thinned, telling him she had no intention of doing so.
Dain would have liked to remain there and tease the lovely Lilia a while longer, but fatigue pressed down upon him, and his nose was aching cruelly. He made his way toward the kitchen door before glancing back over his shoulder at her. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you up cleaning at his hour?”
Her pale, lightly freckled face flushed. “I’m new to this job … I want to make a good impression.”
His answering grin made her flush deepen. “There’s no need to overdo it. My mother’s just relieved to have found another cook so soon.”
3
Winter Blood
The morning of Winter Blood arrived—the longest night and the shortest day of the year—and Lilia rose from her pallet well before dawn.
Yawning, her eyes still half-closed, she pulled on her clothes and stumbled into the kitchen. There was so much to do today that the thought of it was starting to make her feel panicky. After the Guising at dusk, folk would converge on the inn for a night of feasting, drinking, and singing. She had a mountain of food to prepare.
Lilia’s first week at The Grey Anchor had passed in a blur of industry. Every morning, she rose before the dawn and spent hours preparing the kitchen before the rest of the inn awoke. It was a busier establishment than she had expected, with most of its twenty rooms taken up every night. Lilia had fresh bread, porridge, and warm milk ready for their breakfast, before she started work on preparing the noon meal—the largest meal of the day—usually consisting of stew, roast meat, or pies.
It hadn’t taken Lilia long to feel out of her depth in her new job.
She was a good cook—having learned from her mother—and she’d wanted her new employers to be pleased with her, but the harsh schedule she’d set herself was exhausting.
Rolling up her sleeves, Lilia began her morning ritual of scrubbing down the work surfaces. She wouldn’t start work until the kitchen shone. As she worked, she noticed the state of her hands; they were becoming red and chapped. She would need to ask Neasa for some balm, or she’d end up with crone’s hands by the end of the winter.
Lilia sighed, pausing her scrubbing.
The problem was that she needed to work hard. It kept her mind busy, drew her thoughts from the secret she guarded. Every night, she fell onto her sleeping pallet, too tired to dwell on anything.
Mouth thinning, Lilia attacked the bench with her hog-bristle brush once more.
It was better this way.
Later that morning, she was beating batter for the Moon Cakes—orange-scented sweet-treats for the evening’s feast—when Dain entered the kitchen.
Lilia tensed at the sight of him. She saw far too much of Dain, even though she chased him out of her kitchen whenever he loitered too long. He looked rumpled and sleepy this morning. The bruises on his face were fading, and his nose had started to heal. He was attractive, even with a battered face.
“Morning, Lily,” he greeted her with a smile. “Getting ready for Winter Blood, I see?”
She nodded curtly, fixing her attention on the mixing bowl. His easy, familiar manner unsettled her, as did his relentless teasing. “I’m not sure I’m going to get everything done,” she admitted. “Neasa says we’re fully booked tonight.”
“We always are at Winter Blood.” Dain pulled up a stool on the other side of the bench and helped himself to one of the fresh currant buns she’d just pulled out of the oven. She felt his gaze on her face, inspecting her. “You look tired … you really shouldn’t get up so early, there’s no need.”
She glanced up, irritated, expecting to see a teasing smile. Instead, his expression was thoughtful, concerned even.
“I’m fine,” she assured him.
“You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. If you don’t slow down, you’ll collapse.”
Lilia gave him a look that told him it was none of his business, and Dain held up a hand as if to ward her off. “Don’t worry … you won’t have to do everything on your own,” he said with a grin, taking a bite of the bun. “Ma’s sent me in to help you today.”
Lilia’s chest tightened at this news. The last thing she needed was Dain getting underfoot, teasing her and messing up her clean kitchen. Her coldness didn’t seem to have any effect on him. She found him wearing.
“There’s no need,” she said quickly. “I can manage.”
“Sorry,” he said with another infuriating smile. “It’s Ma’s orders. I daren’t disobey her.”
Frost lay thick upon the ground as the folk of Port Needle emptied out onto its streets for the Guising.
Wrapped in a thick fur mantle, Lilia made her way down to Port Square. Her breath steamed bef
ore her in the gloaming; the tips of her ears were numb. The sky was darkening, and the moon was already rising overhead—a ghostly disc against an indigo sky.
Hurrying down the hill, Lilia frowned at a group of girls dressed as white-clad sprites, antlers sewn on to their hoods, who ran by squealing. She was impatient to return to the kitchen; there was still a mountain of chores to be done before the horde of feasters descended upon The Grey Anchor. However, Neasa had insisted Lilia take a basket of Moon Cakes down to the altar before dark.
Like most folk, Lilia was rarely outdoors at this hour. Winter Blood was one of the few days the folk of this isle braved the evening. Even though towns like Port Needle were brightly lit, most people were wary of the servants of the shadows that lurked in the darkness beyond.
Lilia continued down Harbor Way, past stone houses with roofs of slate, their shuttered windows bolted shut against the cold. The setting sun warmed the ochre stone, turning it the color of honey. Wood-smoke perfumed the chill air and blended with the brine-scent of the sea.
Spying the glow of lanterns up ahead, Lilia lengthened her stride—she had almost reached her destination. The boom of drums greeted her as she stepped out onto Port Square and into a swirling crowd. Some folk, like her, hadn’t donned a costume, although most had made an effort for the Guising. A caped woman, clad head-to-toe in voluminous black—to resemble a shadow—brushed by Lilia.
A few feet away, a man dressed as a Nightgenga leered at her. Naked, save for a loin cloth to preserve his modesty, he wore white body paint and a bedraggled-looking wig that hung in lank strands over his face. The night was chill, but he didn’t appear to notice.
The Nightgenga lunged toward her and made a grab for her arm. “Come on, lass. How about a dance?”
Lilia dodged out of reach. “No, thank you.”
The excited crowd jostled her; revelers packed the wide square before the quay. During the day, a market presided over this open space, but this evening Port Square was the site of dancing and music.