Page 35 of A Thief Among Fae

Desmond scoffs.

Our pantheon of the Divine Five is the only religion tolerated in Avedor. Elowyn, the goddess of wisdom, heads the pantheon. Orcs favor Rhea, the goddess of war. Most goblins are agnostic, but some worship the Divine Five. Haldren, the god of prosperity and fertility, is a favorite in Nettlerock. Then there’s Aedros, the god of altruism.

The last is Osian, our god of the afterlife. It’s improper to worship him except through giving tribute at funerals. There’s a rumor that necromancers erected a temple for him somewhere in the north, but none are alive to tend it.

I pause, inhaling a heady whiff of roasted garlic and dripping meats. My stomach growls as we pass a stallkeeper hawking baked squash, another with candied nuts, and yet another selling roasted pig feet.

True to his promise, Desmond stops at a stall with warm pans of spiced sweet rolls. Diced dates and golden honey ooze between the swirls of the dough.

After he pays, I grab one, ready for the first mouthwatering bite. Then I hear a young child cry out ahead of us. A sweet roll is icing-side down on the cobblestones in front of him. His face reddens and his lip trembles. He looks up at his mother, his bleary eyes wide and imploring.

She shakes her head with a sorrowful frown. I know what that look means. She can’t afford to buy him another roll. I feel a pang of empathy. If I weren’t poor, I could’ve bought Evie any fabric she wanted to make a dress.

I kneel in front of the child. “Here.” Then I hold out my sweet roll.

He stares at me, shocked. Then he snatches the roll as if afraid I’ll change my mind. His mother smiles at me in gratitude, and they continue on their way.

Desmond watches me, his brows furrowed like he’s curious. Then he strides on ahead, crossing his arms as we leisurely stroll down the alley of vendors. Or at least I’m leisurely. He frowns, his shoulders drawn taut. He looks around like the only thing that would satisfy him would be setting the stalls on fire.

“You could at least try to enjoy yourself,” I tease him.

“I refuse to indulge in luxuries that my people can’t afford,” he says. “We had festivals once. Now food is scarce, our religion is sacrilege, and few want to celebrate when hope is all but withered.”

“Oh.” I suck a drop of the sweet roll’s honey off my thumb, but its sweetness is suddenly sickly. “That’s why you didn’t rent a suite? To honor the fae?”

Desmond nods.

His austerity makes sense now. No wonder he wanted to avoid Norwynhald, and I feel guilty for dragging him here. I didn’t know.

We walk in tense silence.

“I’ve never tasted a sweet roll,” I tell him, unable to meet his gaze. “We’d never waste marks like that. Not when the famine almost cost us our lives.”

“And what saved you?” he asks.

I glance around to make sure no one is listening. I’ve never told anyone, not until Beula asked where Evie was shot.

I look up at him. “I raided my first tomb.”

He stops, and the crowd parts around him. His gaze turns discerning, then contemplative. I never expected to have a conversation like this with him.

Desmond starts to speak. Then he shakes his head and resumes walking. I think he wanted to ask me something, but I have no idea what.

“Were the festivals like what the stories say?” I ask him. “Mortal bards glamoured to strum their lutes until their fingers fall off, delicacies heady with enchantments. . . the village elders warned us to stay away from fae revels.”

He glances at me with a bored frown. “All stories are fiction. Every word chosen reveals a bias. If you want to understand someone, you listen to the stories they tell. You always learn more about the storyteller than the subject.”

It’s a cynical view of storytelling that my village would disagree with. “What about books?” Reading doesn’t appeal to me, but maybe that’s because I was stuck with the same three books at home.

“Also subjective, but more tolerable since you can skim any rambling,” he answers. His annoyance trickling through our bond hints that he wishes he could time-travel through all of my rambling.

“You didn’t answer my question. Were fae revels like the stories?” I ask.

The surging crowd around us slows as we pivot a corner of the square. His gaze cuts to mine, stoic. “Yes.”

Knew it. “Then tell me more. It’d be nice to hear from a fae prince’s own lips about what they’re like.”

I see a spark of hesitation in his eyes, a sign that he’s torn between indulging me and brushing me off. Then he shuts down, his shoulders stiffening and jaw tightening. “I don’t tell stories. It would be a waste of time.”