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Reluctantly, Corayne opened her eyes and looked back up at the castle. Now a figure stood the ramparts, small in her gray shift, her braids fluttering in the wind.
Valtik looked down on her with a grave expression, her blue eyes lighting across the distance between them. For once, she looked stern, her playful manner gone entirely.
Corayne’s head spun, her breath catching even as she forced out the words.
“Our time has run out.”
27
The Worst Possible
Charlon
The wet cold persisted after they left Iona. Winter ran harsh in the long glen between the mountains, occupying a cruel balance. It did not snow, but freezing rain persisted every day, punctuated by sudden bursts of sunlight through the streaking clouds. After a week traveling south, Charlie felt worn as an old rock, eroded by wind and rain. Even Garion could not hide his discomfort, his alabaster cheeks tinged pink over the collar of his cloak.
It was noon when they rode into Lenava, though Charlie could hardly tell. The gray sky frowned over them, the sun stubborn and hidden.
Lenava seemed quaint compared to metropolitan Ascal or beautiful, pink-hued Partepalas. Even the criminal haven of Adira had more of a heartbeat. The Calidonian capital was a sleepy backwater, to Charlie’s eye. A dark blue flag flapped above the city gates, the image of a white boar waving in the howling wind. The city appeared to be little more than a large town ringed with a stone wall, a castle perched on the hill above the River Avanar. The port sat where the river met the icy waters of the Auroran Ocean, with only a few ships in harbor.
People walked the streets, heading into market or out to the farmlandsoutside the walls. A herd of sheep shuffled by, driven on by a brusque shepherd and a pair of dogs. Carts wheeled, piled high with peat. But the steady rain muffled most noise, pressing down like a gray blanket.
The quiet should have been a comfort. Charlie only felt more unease, his horse squelching through muddy streets.
Garion remained alert, his collar laced high and tight to hide his Amhara tattoos. With his pale face and dark hair, he fit in smoothly with the other cityfolk, all of them milk-skinned beneath their heavy coats and fur hoods.
This seemed like a good idea in Iona, Charlie thought, swallowing hard. The Elder enclave had felt so cut off from the world, but Lenava looked just as isolated.
He eyed the street again, seemingly the main road through the city. Workshops and houses lined the sides, most of them wattle-and-daub, with thatched roofs and timber framing. In Lenava, the market teemed despite the rain, the square of stalls safe beneath a timber roof with open sides.
“Where to first?” Charlie muttered under his breath, leaning toward Garion.
The Amhara gave a devastating smirk. With a tip of a finger, he indicated a nearby building, its wooden sign swaying in the wind. Charlie glimpsed the painted image of a cup. Beneath it, windows glowed with warmth, the stone walls streaked with age.
Garion slid from his horse, grasping at the reins. “Where else?”
The inn and tavern had a small courtyard, and Charlie expected the least. Instead, two grooms jumped to attention, eager to stable their horses. And eager for payment.
Charlie did not miss the way they squinted at the Elder coin, rubbingfingers over the stamped image of a stag. Both grooms, young men with easy smiles, turned sour. But they did not return the coin and led the horses away with curt nods.
“The first time I don’t use counterfeit coin, they turn up their noses at it,” Charlie grumbled under his breath.
The common room of the tavern had a low ceiling and smoky air born of the hearth fire, with a few patrons seated or standing at the bar. It was a suitable establishment, and Charlie was pleasantly surprised with the service. In a few moments, he and Garion had a room for the next few days, their bags and provisions stowed, and a fine lunch laid out. The wine was half-sour but Charlie drank it down anyway, allowing himself to lean back in the little chair.
Exiled or not, Garion did not discard his Amhara ways. He sat with his back in the corner, one eye on the room at all times. Charlie hardly minded. It felt good to shirk off his worries, if only a little.
“Well,” Garion finally said, raising an eyebrow across the table.
“Well,” Charlie answered with a huff.
Outside, the rain turned from heavy mist to a steady downpour, leaving fat drops coursing down the pitted windows.
Beneath the table, Charlie’s knee bounced, despite all his attempts to relax.
Garion tipped his head, his glossy dark eyes narrowed. “What worries you, darling?”
“What doesn’t?” Charlie cut back.
He winced at his own tone, sharper than it needed to be. A low ache throbbed in his temple and he loosed his hair from its tight braid, working out the damp chestnut waves. Then he shrugged off his cloak, too hot for the close, warm air of the tavern. While the rest of their things had beenbrought upstairs, he’d kept his satchel. His forged seals and inks were worth more than anything in their saddlebags. Not to mention Andry’s letter to his mother, tucked away safely between pages of parchment.
