I know I should hurry back to my brother, but I have a feeling deep in my gut that I'm missing something here, so instead, after glancing around to make sure there isn't a wraith sneaking up on me or something equally horrifying, I shut my eyes and take in some deep lungfuls of air. A sweetness hits my tongue, the bursting tart taste of fresh berries close by.
Jackpot.
Sure enough, within a few minutes, I find a wild bramble tree full of berries. I call Pemba over to help me, and the grin that splits his face fills my chest with joy. He's quick to strip out of his jacket to climb up the branches himself, reaching the sweetest fruit at the top with ease, thanks to his long limbs. From our pack I pull out the second bag that we brought along, just in case, and we fill it to the brim with berries, but only after we've had our fill.
“You always were better at finding things than me,” Pemba says, his eyes glowing happily. “We might be able to use these with the innkeeper, swap them for a hot meal tonight.”
His face is handsome with a wry grin across it, just like our father’s, and his bright eyes, so alike to mine, sparkle with joy now that he once again has some hope for our night ahead.
I'm proud of myself for giving that to him.
***
The Oakwood Inn is very typical of a lower fae inn, so much so that it’s almost comical. I stayed in one similar with my father years ago, when we’d traveled together with healing supplies to help a local coven that was having trouble with a nasty strain of an elvish pox outbreak. My mother was pregnant at the time with my youngest sibling, Simmeon, and unable to travel or tend to people who were so ill.
I remember how proud I felt when she decided to send me in her stead but how scared I was to leave the forest. We spent a week with the Terrawyrd Coven, and it had been the hardest work of my life to get them through the worst of the infections. Unfortunately, many of their children and elderly had already died before we arrived.
I still remember their faces, their eyes sightless in death as we helped stack the funeral pyres.
The inn doesn't look like anything from the outside, merely a tree wide enough to fit ten fully grown men within the trunk. I can feel magic radiating out from the large wooden door, the spells familiar to me. There’s enough magic and spells woven into the door itself that those wishing harm upon the occupants would not be able to enter, their hands simply never quite connecting with the door handle, but as Pemba takes a deep breath and reaches out to it, he is easily able to pull it open.
The cavernous space in front of us has a simple wooden staircase going down into the depths of the roots, the hard-packed earthen walls smelling of that same sweet decay as the rest of the forest.
The smell of home, the smell of all I’ve lost.
After carefully hiding the scepter in the pack, Pemba squares his shoulders as he takes the lead, holding out an arm for me to grab as we descend the uneven steps. A few torches, lit and hammered into the walls around us, burn with an unnatural light as magic keeps them glowing. Our coven used the same sorts of spells, and though I’ve never been here before, it makes the inn familiar to me. Muddy sets of footprints far larger than my own lead down the stairs, some easily four times the size of my boots, and at the sight of them, I have to take a moment to center myself with a deep breath.
Many magic folk frequent these inns—many who might not want to spend time in the presence of a witch, even a Ravenswyrd.
“Just breathe, Rooke. Everything is going to be okay,” Pemba mutters under his breath, and I clear my throat as if I can clear the demons from my head at the same time.
No one is going to care about two little Ravenswyrd witches this far away from our coven land. We've traveled a great distance in such a short amount of time, they won't yet know that we're orphans. Everything is going to be okay.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, the room opens into a large tavern filled with many drinking patrons. I wasn't expecting it to be quite this busy—it's early afternoon, after all—and I gulp a little at the wide variety of lower fae here.
Goblins, elves, a few who must have at least a little high fae blood in them with their fair looks…dozens of folk who could kill us both without much effort.
Pemba rolls his shoulders back one last time before he walks confidently toward the bar. I do my best to emulate him as I follow close behind, tucking the hood of my jacket around the dark nest of curls that have escaped my braids.
Most of the patrons here are men, and though I was sheltered in my coven, I'm not so naive in the ways of the world as to not understand that a woman traveler isn't particularly safe. These men could do just about anything to me, and I wouldn’t know how to protect myself beyond blasting them with my magic, which would only cause us more problems. Magic should never be used to harm, and there are dire consequences for those who choose to do so.
Using magic against others without explicit consent is seen as the same as pulling a knife on them, the intent to cause harm assumed. In the eyes of the law—the high fae who rule over the lands—I would be automatically at fault. Guilty without a trial.
Magic should always be reserved for live-or-die situations.
“My father paid for a night here for us both under the name Sawyer. We're running a little late, though,” Pemba says to the innkeeper. Sawyer was the fake name our father used as a cover when he traveled, one that always served him well.
The innkeeper is an older woman, taller even than Pemba, and her skin has an emerald hue to it that denotes a goblin ancestry. She’s blonde though, her eyes deep blue, and I couldn’t hazard a guess at what the goblin is mixed with.
She doesn’t look impressed by either of us as she takes us both in, a glass and a rag in her hands as she cleans it.
“I don't keep rooms open just in case, especially if I’m risking my life and business for witches. If you fail to come when you've booked in, then the fee is forfeited,” she says with a stern look.
I don’t understand why her life would be at risk. We mean her no harm.
Pemba doesn’t seem as shocked at this information as I am.
“My sister has had some trouble keeping up. The forest isn't so forgiving these days. Is there nothing we can do to stay here?” he asks, turning on his charm as he winks at her, and I watch as the woman, who is at least twice his age in appearance alone, melts under his attention.
