by E Hall
Soren throws a suspicious look over his shoulder at Fjallhold Castle.
“What can I help you with?” the seer asks as we enter her stall.
“We want to see your tapestries.”
“Many apologies, they’re not for sale.”
“We didn’t offer to buy them,” Soren says irritably. He pulls the table away from the wall near the secret exit, revealing the tapestry. Folding his arms across his chest, he leans back.
We survey the tear along the bottom of the tapestry.
“I see what was Fjallraven, the Docks, Battersea, the Flats, the Roost, the Basin, and Bearsden. Where’s the rest? The outerlands?” Soren asks.
“Why do you want to go to the outerlands?” The seer’s eyes narrow.
“I didn’t say I wanted to go there,” Soren says.
I interrupt and try to use my best manners. “I’m Kiki. What’s your name?” I ask.
“That’s not your true name,” the seer says matter of fact.
“My mother told me not to tell anyone.”
“Rightly so. At best, the knowledge of your true name brings you into a closer connection to your beloved, whoever you name sweetly. At worst, your true name makes you easier to trace, to control, and possess. By the way, I’m Nadya Zorgova Vlaga daughter of Ilana Tatimia Vlaga.”
“That sounds like your true name.”
“I’m not fae.”
“Well, we need the map. Is there more?” Soren interrupts.
She answers, “Bearsden.” Nadya’s tone betrays a secret but also contains what sounds like a twinge of regret.
Soren huffs and looks at the ceiling. “Of course it is.”
“Is that a bad thing?” I ask.
“It could only be worse if it was in the castle itself,” Soren answers.
“No, in this instance it would be worse if it were buried in Hargrave with the person who made it. I may be a mystic, but I’m also practical.” Her face is steely. “Long ago, I was in love with a bearman.” Her gaze flutters between us.
“Wicked War era?” Soren asks.
She nods. “We were going to run away together to a place where we could be free to love one another without the threat of death. My grandmother, one of the highest seers of the old kingdom, rested in the tomb at Hargrave,” she says. Lament is heavy in her voice. “The tapestry map was in her tomb so she would know where to go—to the sea, to the mountains, or remain, here with us.”
“You took it from her grave?” Soren asks.
“I left her jewels if you’re asking whether I’m a ruthless robber. But yes, I took it because I wanted to be free in this life before it was too late.”
Soren stiffens.
“But you’re not free,” I say gently.
“I’m not. Just before we were going to leave, my beloved,” she says sourly, “was offered a position among the King Torsuld’s guard. He wanted me to stay, to try to make it work. I didn’t want to so he took the other half of the tapestry and now, the tapestry forcing me to stay here. Now, it’s in Bearsden.” She closes her eyes.
“Have you ever tried getting it?”
She shakes her head. “It’s no use to me now.”
“How do you know it’s there?”
“I can see, Soren,” she says as though this should obvious.
“You can’t give up,” I say.
“Everyone in Raven’s Landing has given up.”
Nadya’s gaze floats over to the torn tapestry. She points at a massive bear’s head with bared teeth woven into the fabric. It depicts a building adjacent to the castle. “Bearsden. I visited Fjallraven with my grandmother when I was a child. I didn’t want to see the palatial rooms and treasures. No, I wanted to see the famed bearmen.” The seer tilts her head from side to side in memory.
Dismissing this Soren asks, “Do you know a way into Bearsden? I’m only familiar with the exits.”
“If only you could fly,” she singsongs.
Soren snorts.
“Yeah. Both of us,” I say.
A sneaky smile flits across Nadya’s face. She lifts her hands to the tapestry and closes her eyes. After a moment, she says, “You’ll want to follow the eastern wall. There’s an opening at the base just past the third levy. It’ll be low tide if you go soon. When you come out on the other side, you’ll have to scale the wall. Be watchful. Then take a right when you greet the bear statue. Pass three doors then go up the stairs. Two doors down, you’ll find the rest of my grandmother’s tapestry in the last room at the end of the hall rolled up inside a wooden wardrobe, hidden.”
“Will we? Are you sure?” Soren asks.
Nadya juts her chin. “If you take this journey to the outerlands, it’ll be a fool’s errand trying to rustle up ravens. They need a leader.” She leans in. “Like the bearmen, they left because they refused to follow the silver king.”
Soren’s eyebrow lifts sharply as though this is news to him.
“How do we find them a leader?”
“Maybe you already have.” Nadya’s smile is faint yet serene.
Soren gazes out into the violet light of evening.
“How do we break a curse?” I ask.
“The king’s curse?” she asks. “Depends on which one, but typically it’s the source of grim mage magic and you’ll need a mage’s council.”
“Do you know any mages?” I ask as though I’m wondering where I can find the best slice of pizza in town. My stomach pinches with hunger.
“While in the Morgorthian Mountains you’ll want to seek Vespertine,” Nadya says. “He can provide answers and aid. There is much for you to learn.”
“Say that again?” I ask slowly as cold, cloudy memory filters back.
“Vespertine,” Nadya repeats.
I swallow heavily. “I thought my mother said to seek the silver king, but I think she said that name. I’d never heard it before and was kind of in shock. Silver King. Vespertine,” I repeat.
“The names sound similar,” Soren says, stepping outside.
I cat my attention between Soren’s retreating figure and the urgency in Nadya’s eyes, hardly able to trace what she’s saying for the fluttering in my chest as if I’m desperate to go now, take flight...or go home to the sanctuary of my room in New York with posters, a few stuffed animals leftover from when I was little, and my assortment of fluffy pillows scattered on my bed.
As the hour lengthens and the tide shifts, there isn’t time to ask her to explain. I rush into the night and after Soren.
Chapter 11
Ineke
The lane bustles with activity despite it being what Soren called the demon’s hour. Candles glow and children carry what look like Fourth of July sparklers.
Men and women alike haul wood toward the Docks and harbor.
“I thought it was almost demon hour when everyone hurries back home?” I ask. Nightfall never kept New Yorkers inside despite the demons. Then again, we have demon slayers.
Soren points to a cart. “Since it’s Hallowtide, they get a dukh for each load of wood, and you notice all the light—the fire.”
“A dukh? Like quack, quack,” I ask, imitating the animal.
Soren chuckles. “Money, coins. Long ago, they used to actually trade ducks—the bird.”
“And what happens with the wood?” I ask.
“They build the fire high so it burns late into the night, keeping away the demons, mostly. Also, anyone on distant shores will fear our fiery harbor. What they don’t realize is that the people who already live here have the most to fear. What’s more, they keep the embers for the ashpit,” Soren says in a flat voice. “But it does provide a distraction…”
I smile. “Wait. You’ll help me get the tapestry?” When he doesn’t confirm or deny, I say, “Do you think we can do it?”
He exhales. “If we fail, I don’t suppose the patrol will object to tossing us on the bonfires.”
“Reason enough to succeed.”
When the bells toll, unlike last night, people parade away fro
m their homes and toward the harbor, sweeping us into their midst. Their cheeks smudge gray with ash.
Soren catches me staring. “Long ago it was to honor the spirits of the dead. Now it’s fear. They paint their faces with ash to keep hidden from the demons. The guards will be on patrol, but even they use tonight as an excuse to be generous with the drink.”
“Stijl?” I ask.
“The patrol isn’t allowed to drink stijl, but they more than make up for it with cider,” he says with a glint in his eyes. “Perhaps I can play for a bottle to barter—” Soren wears what can only be described as a scheming expression.
We sweep back toward the Flats. I hardly keep up with him or the mounting questions.
Soren stalks along the street as people filter in the opposite direction until he stops in front of a dark green door. He knocks once, twice, once, and then four times, steady and sharp. The knock returns from the other side. He knocks four times, then once, twice, and then once again. The door opens.
“Room for another player?” he asks a man nearly as tall as him.
They clap each other on the shoulders and then embrace.
“Nice to see you, Grunk.”
“Thought you were done with this game?” says the doorman.
“It’s a night,” Soren says vaguely, ducking inside and gesturing I follow.
The large man looks me up and down. I’m pretty sure Hagrid and Madam Maxime had a baby. “Plus one at the table?” Grunk asks.
Soren shakes his head.
The two men fill the narrow hall as I follow. At a second door, there’s another combination of knocks. We enter a low, lantern-lit room, practically dug out of the earth. In the center men and women gather around a table, each of them tossing square white tiles into the middle in no discernable pattern. At least that I can tell.
They don’t pause amidst a chorus of greetings, a few scowls cast at Soren, and more than one wary look in my direction.
A bearded man wearing a cap shoots to standing and beams when he sees Soren. They hug and confer for a moment before Soren gestures me over with a tilt of his head.
“This is Trotter,” Soren says. “He’s the tabber here. How’s Francie?” he asks, interrupting himself as though he forgot his manners.
“As well as she can be, all things considered.”
“Give her my best,” Soren says warmly.
“Of course.” Trotter’s eyes light up and his whiskers twitch into a grin when he sees me. “And who’s this?”
I sense this is some sort of homecoming for Soren.
He draws a breath and says, “Kiki.”
I have the funny thought about what it might be like if he knew my true name. How the shape of it on his lips would look, sound... I shake myself from the thought as another one lands. How did the demon at work know my name?
Trotter holds my gaze as though listening to words I’m not saying and then with a warm, twinkling smile says, “I’ve known Soren since he was,” he holds his hand at his waist, “about this big.”
“I was never that small,” Soren jokes.
“No, I suppose you weren’t. His father and I used to sail together. That was a long, long time ago.”
“He looked after me until I was,” Soren holds his hand up, indicating about my height, “This tall.”
“I’m still looking after you, my boy. I promised your father.” He claps Soren on the shoulder. “Unless you want to take over,” Trotter says to me with a wink.
“I’m here to play tiles,” Soren says, getting down to business.
“To what purpose?” Trotter asks as though he’s well versed in hidden agendas.
“To keep the patrol at a distance.”
Trotter surveys Soren. “Why would you need to do that?”
“The usual reasons,” Soren answers.
Trotter turns to me as though the vague answer suffices. “You came from the north?” he asks.
“New York,” I say. “
We’re seeking the ravens and a mage,” Soren whispers.
If the shifting of Trotter’s eyes indicates surprise, it’s fleeting. “Then you must be hungry,” he says as though understanding exactly what we’re up to. This place seems like it deals in shady endeavors and breaking into the guard’s barracks definitely qualifies.
“Always,” Soren says with a grin.
“Then we’ll make sure you leave here with full bellies and pockets.” He nods in the direction of the table as though satisfied with Soren’s explanation.
Soren takes a seat and in short order, he’s casting the white stones, carved with strange markings.
A bowl of stew appears in front of me along with a chunk of warm bread with a thick crust and a lump of cheese on the side. “We save this for special guests,” Trotter says, sitting down next to me.
“I’m not that special but thank you.”
He glances from Soren whose profile reveals ease as he leans back in his chair. “I daresay you are.”
“I can’t accept this meal though. There are so many hungry people here.” Guilt grips me tightly.
“Soren wouldn’t have come tonight unless this was important. You’ll need your strength. Go on. Have a bite. Let me know if you like it. Secret family recipe.”
I take a spoonful and the smooth broth warms me instantly. I smile.
“That’s a girl. This stew is what grew him up so big. Put a bit of hair on his chest too.”
I chuckle.
“Under his tough exterior, Soren has become a good man. Good as he can be growing up here, losing so much so young. I’ve always known he’ll do something great just not when.” With a sideward glance in my direction, he adds, “Seems the time has come.”
We watch the tile game in amicable silence as Soren pools a small pile of dukhs in front of him. I don’t quite follow the rules of play, only cheer when Soren does, which happens frequently when he matches his stone to that of another player.
Trotter excuses himself with a genial smile. Before his seat cools, a man with a sallow, thin face saunters over.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says as his gaze lengthens from my head to my feet in a devouring sort of way. I recognize his brand of flirting is meant to flatter and find weakness. “I haven’t seen you before. This tavern can be trouble. Maybe you’d like to spend some time at my table and I’ll look after you. Show you some sugar.”
Nasty. I fight the urge to barf in my mouth. “Hey, sweetheart?” I ask with an edge to my voice. I may not have frequented taverns or bars back home but that doesn’t mean I can’t spot slop like him.
“I’m Krebs. Can I get you a mug of cider?” He makes a move to pull me to him.
“Can I get you a clue, Crabs?” I counter as I shove myself back.
His eyebrows wrinkle. “A clue?”
“I’ll clarify. A clue in this instance means no. One word. Full-sentence. Not interested.”
His expression darkens and he leers, licking his lips.
I get to my feet, squaring off.
“Feisty,” he breathes.
“Deadly,” I correct, pulling my blade from its sheath.
He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. I get the picture, sweetheart.”
I lean in. “Do you? Because there’s nothing sweet about me unless you’d like me to carve out whatever lump of coal beats in your chest.”
At that, he backs off and returns to his table.
A young woman with freckles popping from under coal-smudged cheeks slams down a metal cup between us. My spoon rattles against the empty bowl. “I was going to intervene, but see you can take care of yourself.”
“Not the first time I’ve come across dumb buckets, but usually they’re demon shape.”
“You here with him?” she asks in a gruff voice, eying the tile table.
“Soren?” I nod.
She takes a long sip from the cup and then passes it to me. “In that case, finish this off. You’ll need it.” She pulls off her cap, releasing a cascade of dark co
pper curls, and sits down. Two blades rest in her belt. A bow and quiver of arrows are across her back.
“How do you know Soren?”
“The good, the bad, and the bitter know Soren Blackthorne,” she says. “The question isn’t why they know him, but what they want from him. And I have to ask, what do you want from him?”
“Are you good, bad, or bitter?” I ask.
She sneers. “All of the above. And so is he,” she says, gesturing to Soren who slides another couple of dukhs into his pile. “You have to be, living here.”
“Then the answer to your question what do I want from him? Courage.” But not for myself. I have plenty of that. For him to see this through. He’s familiar with the Northlands whereas I am not. I only hope that he’ll help and not hinder.
A smile lifts her darkened cheeks. “I’m Britta by the way,” she says.
“I’m Kiki. Nice to meet you. I think.”
When both of Soren’s fists are full of coins, he gets up and scans the room. His eyes land on me. He smiles a rare smile as though waking from a happy dream, before glancing at Britta and grimacing.
He nods to the players and then strides over. Britta drinks him in with her eyes and then whispers something in his ear.
He snarls.
She crows a laugh before strutting away with a friendly wave at me.
My stomach tumbles.
“The tide is almost low. Let’s go,” Soren says.
We thank Trotter and a few of the others. I catch them whisper, “Light the night,” before we step bravely into the Hallowtide festivities.
The air is thick with smoke from the bonfire. Cheering and chanting for the king reverberates off the water, ricochets between the buildings, and fills my ears with dread. “Why do they all just go along with it?”
“Not all,” Soren replies with a wink like Trotter’s. “You met Britta.”
“She’s—”
“As cold as iron and as cunning as a fox,” he answers for me. “A fox shifter, in fact. Don’t tell anyone.”
“You know each other well?”
“We did.”
“She gave you a look,” I say carefully.
“Murder face, which I wouldn’t put beyond her.”
“She’s on your side then—?” I ask, reading into what might be a lover’s quarrel.