Page 22 of A Thief Among Fae

This time, I’ll raid a tomb without endangering anyone I love. And I need to leave tonight.

The rest of the day would’ve dragged on if I hadn’t been writing a mental checklist. During supper, when Dad tells me he’ll be accompanying me on every supply run to the neighboring villages, I agree with practiced indifference. It won’t matter. He glances at Mom, my lack of obstinacy perhaps a little suspicious, but he doesn’t question me. After chores, Evie and I retire to bed. Our parents do the same.

I count the seconds until Evie’s breathing turns deep and rhythmic. She doesn’t stir as I light a lamp. I shove my dress and corset into a canvas rucksack and quickly change into a loose tunic and outgrown pants that leave my ankles bare.

Then I slip on my dagger holsters and my crossbody sword sheath. Sebastian sharpened the sword for me after I found it in a tomb. It took a little pleading to convince the village guards to show me the basics, and a little lying so my parents wouldn’t know how I acquired it.

Last, I carefully unwrap the beautiful dagger Seb gifted me for my birthday. In the pale lamplight, I admire the deep blue rope around the handle and the delicate crescent moon engraved on the blade. Then I sheath it at my hip.

Slowly, I creep down the ladder to the hearth room. Now there are only two things left to do. I try to craft a note in my head that will assure them I’ll be fine, but think of nothing that they’d believe. So I hastily dip my quill into ink and write on parchment, I’ll return soon. If there are any emergencies, dig holes in the cellar, four paces from the stairs.

That’s where I’ve hidden the barrow treasure I’ve found.

Finishing the note makes it real. The finality of what I’m doing is heavy in my chest. In a few hours, I’ll be in Mythos. Before my head can start spinning, I don my family’s treasured heirloom bow and quiver, passed down through generations on my father’s side. He gifted both to me when I turned eighteen.

My heavy pack and weapons will make my back ache by the time I reach Mythos. But my gut tells me it’s leave now on foot or never.

I step outside. The autumn night is laden with a cool breeze. A fox watches me from the tree line, its amber eyes blinking once before it darts off. Crickets chirp, and a lone owl hoots as I leave the dim light of Nettlerock for the darkness of the forest. Just as I pass underneath the first cluster of conifers, I hear a door fly open and bang into its wall.

“Cynthia!” Evie screams at the top of her lungs. “Come back!”

My feet falter. The grief in her shrill voice paralyzes me with guilt.

No. I steel myself. I can’t go back. This is for them just as much as it is for me. But that admission stuns me. Something about this is for me. Something in me is ready for this.

As Evie screams my name again, I take my first step into the adventure that awaits me.

Chapter 7

Mythos’s gate is just as imposing in the inky black and grays of night as it is during the day. Two braziers burn atop the towering stone wall, where a guard trains his bow on me. His chainmail glints in the firelight. “Halt!” he yells, eyeing my weaponry. “What brings you to Mythos?”

“I’m a traveler seeking lodging,” I answer.

He yells something over his shoulder, and a scribe scurries out from a door in the wall. She yawns as she checks my documents, then scribbles my name on her parchment. “Welcome to Mythos,” she mumbles. Then she trudges back into the wall, where an oil lamp illuminates cramped beds.

Beyond the gate, the road continues to slope upward. The capital was built along the gradual incline of Mount Drottheim’s base. Its snow-capped peak overlooks the city as if the gods rest atop it. Now, the mountain cuts the sky apart, a mysterious void of stars.

A memory pulls me to the eastern wall. I scale a trellis that winds up the side of a floral shop and peek over the wall. The landscape is beautiful, the rippling night sky reflected in the Bay of Teeth. Each bobbing light from boats moored at the docks is a bright star swaddled in inky black. Verdant forests trace the coastline, then continue for miles. Dad and I spent an eternity admiring this sight the first time he brought me to Mythos. The memory fades as I climb down.

I jump the last few feet, and a sharp pain jolts up my ankles. That was a moronic idea after walking for hours. I need to find Hawthorn Inn and rent a bed before the blisters on my feet pop.

Some of the half-timber shops I pass are dark. Others are warm with candlelight. No one would be awake in Nettlerock save the nightly patrol. Here, idle chatter spills through open windows. It’s invigorating how a place can be alive even as dawn approaches.

I wander the streets and consider asking for directions just as I spy a tavern overflowing with music and raucous laughter. Two drunks stumble out, singing in ear-splitting discordance. A patrolling guard barks at them to be quiet, and they sway down another street. The sign hanging over the doorway is painted with five-petaled white flowers. In cursive are the words Hawthorn Inn. Maybe this bit of luck is a good omen.

In the doorway, I pause to revel in the sharp aroma of spiced autumn stew. The cacophony is even louder inside: bawdy mistresses fawning over gamblers, the shuffling of cards on rickety tables, and an off-key minstrel howling an ode to Elowyn. Someone throws an apple wedge at him. He scowls, then trudges toward the hearth with his lute. I’m so transfixed by the chaos that a couple has to push past me to leave.

Three goblin females wearing boots and thick wool shawls speak in a dialect indecipherable to me. One has the Lesser Gift of mimicry and impersonates the others with eerie perfection. They all burst out laughing.

I don’t see the fae Prince of Death anywhere.

Behind the bar counter, a broad-shouldered orc fills cups of ale from kegs. His hair is braided down his back, and his skin is the color of pine needles. He must be the innkeeper.

I slam my hands against the counter. “Excuse me! I’m looking for someone!” I hope this is the right inn. “Do you have any fae staying here?”

The orc turns, ale sloshing out of the cups. “I’ve a full tavern here, girl. We rarely serve fae patrons. They’re a troublesome lot. Perhaps you’re looking for my servant.” The orc gestures at an unseelie fae that’s wiping down a table.

The fae is only as tall as my hips, and his cloven hooves are comically large compared to the rest of him. Two ovine horns curl through his hair.