Page 23 of A Thief Among Fae

My fists clench. What if I misremembered the name of the inn? What if the prince decided I wasn’t worth waiting for, and he left already?

The orc innkeeper’s cups tremble, and ale streams down their sides. He sets them all down, his intimidating growl making me hesitate to apologize for letting my magic slip out.

“Never mind,” I quickly say. “What’s your rate for a room?”

“We’re sold out of rooms,” he replies, sliding an ale down the counter to a waving patron. “I even rented out the kitchen boy’s!”

How many rooms do they have? Two? “Can you give me directions to another inn?”

The innkeeper laughs, any irritation forgotten. “From what I’ve been told, that was the last room in the city. You should’ve known better than to arrive the night before Norwynhald.”

Shit, I forgot that the autumn equinox is tomorrow. We don’t do much to celebrate it in Nettlerock. Families can only afford to splurge on one holiday a year, and most choose the winter solstice since there’s less work to be done when the fields are frozen. I’ve heard that in Mythos, every festival celebrating the Divine Five gods is extravagant.

My body deflates under the weight of my belongings, and I lean onto the sticky counter for support. This is Elowyn punishing me for leaving my family a shitty note, isn’t it?

“Do you have any lockable rooms?” I ask. “Even a supply closet?”

“Afraid I don’t. I don’t even have enough rooms for this lot.” He gestures at the tavern crowd. “Most of ‘em come to drink themselves silly till dawn. Maybe you could do the same.”

“Thank you, but I’ll pass.” I won’t be anything but sober when I find the prince. Otherwise, he’d probably swear me to some lopsided bargain. I leave the counter and weave between the tables.

There. Cloaked in the shadows of the corner, Desmond sits with hands laced on the table, deep in conversation with another hooded man.

I slow, straining to listen as I approach. Two tables away from them, the seats are open. I slide into a chair and tune out the minstrel.

“Time is running out,” the other man murmurs. “My allies are becoming restless.” He rolls the thick golden band on his little finger back and forth. Its center is flat and engraved, a signet ring.

What stands out to me the most is the inner lining of the man’s cloak. It’s ermine, a fur that only the highest of the nobility could afford. It draws more than a few looks from a nearby table of gamblers. Desmond glares at them, and they quickly avert their gazes.

“Don’t they know patience is one of Elowyn’s virtues?” Desmond wryly replies to the man. “I’ll be ready, but be prepared to placate them in case anything goes wrong.”

The other man’s voice lowers. “Nothing better go amiss. Both of our lives are on the line, but I won’t hesitate to implicate yours to save mine. It’s nothing personal. That’s just how these games are played.”

“Believe me, I do better than play. I win.” Desmond leans forward just enough to make the table feel smaller. “And if you break our deal, you’ll wish you never played at all. It’s nothing personal.”

In his fist, something glows purple.

The other man’s chair scrapes back. His shoulders stiffen, and he stares at Desmond’s hand as if it holds a curse. “Then we are at an understanding,” he says, his voice strained.

He stands, and I catch a glimpse of him. His widened eyes are as dark as slate, and there’s something familiar about his long, straight face. The connection hits me so suddenly that I almost gasp. Those were Ronan’s eyes, but on an older man.

Prince Eldon, the Crown Prince of Avedor, swallows so thickly that his panic is palpable. “Until the moon,” he says. Then he departs for the door in swift strides, his gaze fixed ahead.

That was strange. Why would the prince of the Hollowlands meet with Avedor’s crown prince in a tavern? I toy with the hem of my tunic as I ponder their conversation. Nothing about it sounded related to the tomb raid, but the timing must mean it’s connected somehow. Unless I’m overthinking⁠—

“Who’s the stalker now?” the fae asks, sliding into the seat across from me.

I flinch, my knees banging into the table. Desmond smirks.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” Frowning, I rub my knees to work off the bruise. “Who’s your friend? And do you always threaten to kill each other?” I want him to admit he met with Eldon without realizing I recognized him. I also don’t want that purple glow anywhere near me.

“We’re not friends,” he answers, his clipped tone almost defensive.

I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. So much for transparency. Then he reaches into his satchel, pulls out a worn leather tome, and opens it to read.

My jaw drops; I quickly force it up. “Aren’t you going to bring me up to speed on your plan?”

“Not tonight. We’re surrounded by opportunists and mercenaries.” He subtly points with his thumb at a woman sipping ale in the corner.