Page 47 of Death Will Follow

“Why would she do that?” Nova tutted.

He dipped his head sheepishly.

“Th-thieving,” he said finally. “But only once, and nothing of great value. Please, miss, you must believe me.” He raised his hands in front of him, his face twisting and going red as he beheld them once more.

Nova shushed the youngling, stroking his cheek with the back of her fingers as she considered how she might help him. A hex, she figured, was more or less a curse. She hadn’t yet wielded the Light of Illora intentionally, but perhaps it was time she tried.

“Hush, now,” Nova murmured, brushing the child’s hair, deep brown and sweat-damp, from his forehead. “Perhaps I can help.”

The boy ceased his crying at once, sniffling loudly. “How?”

Nova frowned as she took hold of his wrists. “I’m not exactly sure.” She exhaled sharply through her nose, resolved to do what she could for him. “Now then, lad. Close your eyes, and stay as quiet as a mouse.”

The boy nodded enthusiastically, then closed his eyes and pressed his lips together in an exaggerated expression, as if he’d licked a lemon. Nova shook her head against a laugh before closing her own eyes. She called her struggle against Bryn to mind; the moment she’d unleashed her ability before she even knew she possessed it. She could recall nothing she’d done to draw it out, only the white mist gathering at the edges of her vision before the flash of blinding light.

Lady Samira had said folk call the gods’ power to them in order to wield it. Cradling the child’s wooden hands in her own, Nova latched onto the memory of the white mist. Asked Illora for aid. Invited her in. All at once, her heart seized, a choked gasp escaping her lips as pure white light flooded her mind’s eye.

She’d no notion of how much time had passed. By degrees, she returned to herself, slowly taking stock of each sensation. A chill seeping through her cloak as she sagged against the stone wall. The boy’s joyful laughter, bell-like, rising above the droning hum in her ears. His warm, soft hands upon her face.

“Wake up, miss. You’ve done it!”

Her eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings; the child’s round face hovered close to her own. She planted her palms on the ground and straightened her back against the wall. Groggy, she glanced to where the alleyway opened into the busy street. Folk milled past, none taking notice. The boy cupped her cheeks and guided her to look at him.

“I owe you one, miss.” Before Nova could speak, he snatched up his lantern, scampered down the alley, and disappeared into the crowd.

Moments ticked by before she felt capable of getting to her feet. She leaned against the building briefly, then attempted to walk. Steadying herself with her palms dragging along the narrow walls, she, at last, reached the street. Nova scanned the area, but the child was nowhere to be seen. Inhaling a deep breath, she emerged from the shadows and returned to where the horses stood tethered just as Callan emerged from the inn.

“They’ve found us a room,” he said, “and we can house the horses in the stables at the back.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Nova sighed, untying Shade’s lead from the post. “I’m nearly spent.”

Twenty

The mood inside The Wilted Bloom was jovial and inviting, the air thick with laughter and a haze of sweet wyldleaf smoke. Even so, cold bloomed at the base of Callan’s neck, setting the tiny hairs on his arms standing on end despite the warmth of the room. He’d removed his cloak out of necessity, draping it over the back of the bench where he’d stowed Nova and Bryn, tucked away in the corner and, hopefully, out of sight.

A barmaid with velvet antlers protruding from a head of mousy brown hair hastily filled three steins with ale. She slid them across the bar top, pale froth sloshing over the rims and dripping down the sides. Callan slapped down a handful of coins with a nod. The maid scooped the coins into her palm, narrowing her eyes on him as she dropped them into the till.

Callan carried all three mugs together, holding them high as he navigated the crowd on his way back to the table, dodging rowdy patrons and stepping carefully over the uneven floorboards. Like most buildings in Maedwen, the inn appeared to have been built by a drunkard, hardly a right angle or flush surface to be found. At last reaching their spot without a collision or a fall, Callan set the drinks upon the table. Calling on his magic, he frosted the metal steins, chilling the ale before delivering it into Bryn’s and Nova’s ready hands.

He’d ordered two meat pies and a tray of cheese and fresh bread when they’d arrived. Nova, it seemed, had eaten a third of a pie in the short time he’d been gone. She tipped her mug and gulped down a mouthful of ale as Callan settled himself onto the curved bench beside her. With Bryn seated on the opposite end, Nova was essentially blocked from view, hidden from prying eyes.

Being back in the Spring Court set Callan’s intuition flickering, reminding him of how easily he had lost control when he’d last visited the rain-drenched lands. He tightened his grip around his mug. He’d been alone in life then. No one to care for—not even himself. Now, his entire world was seated on the bench beside him, humming contentedly as she swallowed forkfuls of mince pie.

“I’m not usually one for mutton,” Nova said between bites, “but this is divine.”

She sliced through the pie with the edge of her fork and held it out to him, cupping her opposite hand under his chin. Callan happily accepted the offer of food from his mate, smiling faintly as he chewed. Something about the act of care eased his apprehension a bit, a glowing warmth kindling in his chest and spreading lower.

Bryn slammed her empty cup down on the table, and Callan reluctantly pulled his gaze away from Nova.

“The Estate’s locked up tighter than a temple coffer.” Bryn shook her head and swiped the back of her hand across her lips. She wore a new green tunic and brown breeches, purchased with coin she said she’d won off Evander in a friendly archery competition. “Couldn’t even get past the gate. I’d have flown if I had any idea which window belonged to the sister.”

“Riven,” Nova corrected, pointing her empty fork at Bryn.

“Yes—Riven.” Bryn shifted in her seat and glanced at the entrance for, by Callan’s count, the tenth time.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked before taking a small sip of ale. Part of him longed to down the mug in one go. Ease his weary nerves. But, though the drink would calm him, it would dull him, and he needed to remain sharp.

Bryn turned away from the door and leaned back in her seat, lazily tracing a finger around a ring of ale on the tabletop. “For a bit of coin, one of the guards agreed to deliver a message asking her to meet us here this evening if she’s able.”