Page 28 of Her Cruel Redemption

We pushed our way through the crowded streets as quickly as I could manage with the ever-curious Daethie, who wanted to stop and stare at every shop window and gawk at every market cart. The crowds were clearly travellers, with the streets choked with families who seemed to be drifting about with no place to go, or going door to door requesting rooms, or haggling with merchants who wanted exorbitant prices for their highly in demand food items.

‘I don’t know how much luck we’re going to have sourcing supplies here,’ Daethie said as we ducked out of the way of a quarrel between a fruit stall holder and a red-faced, dusty man who was outraged at the price of apples. ‘I think they’re a bit overrun.’

‘Overrun is putting it mildly,’ I muttered. The crowd pressed in closer, and the air was thick with raised voices, the scent of overripe fruit mixing with sweat and dust. Every customer seemed one bad offer away from a fistfight. ‘Seems like food is getting tight. We must be getting closer to the conflict.’

‘We can always forage if we need to,’ Daethie said as she dodged a pile of rotting cabbage leaves.

‘If people are starting to go hungry, we’ll be hard pressed to find anything that hasn’t already been picked over. Unless you want to eat rats. There’s always plenty of those where there are big crowds.’ Spotting the swinging sign of a tavern on one of the buildings nearby, I caught her sleeve and tugged her in that direction. ‘Come on, I’ve spotted our news source.’

The tavern was as busy as the street outside had been. The air was warm, almost stifling between the heat of the fire in the grate and the many bodies packed around tables and along the bar. The buzz of voices was a constant hum, almost too loud for real eavesdropping, but perhaps I could strike up a conversation with someone looking to while away their time with their mug of ale. With a pang, I remembered that my scarred face made that a trickier prospect than it once would have been. I’d have to rely on my skills in conversation instead of my looks.

I turned to Daethie, about to tell her to start asking around and see what she could find out about the war, but when I caught sight of her blatant fascination as she stared around the room I quickly reconsidered that idea.

‘Don’t wander,’ I said instead, having to wave a hand before her face first to get her attention. ‘And don’t talk to anyone. I’ll get us some drinks and see if I can strike up a conversation with the barkeeper. Just find yourself a seat and try not to draw attention to yourself.’

She smiled dreamily, and if she was insulted by the instructions that essentially implied that she wouldn’t be of any use in our task, she didn’t show it. I left her drifting towards an empty seat, staring at people far too long as she went. It would have been far easier if Gwinellyn hadn’t made me take her. Now I’d have to worry about getting back to her before she did something stupid.

I squeezed my way through the other patrons to find a space to stand at the bar and placed a few coins on the countertop. The man to my right wasn’t a good option, since he seemed to be waiting for several mugs of ale to be poured, which meant he’d be taking them back to his companions and wouldn’t have time to linger. To my left were a pair of women—doxies, by the looks of their low-cut gowns and the rouge on their cheeks. They’d be a better option. I was scanning the bottles lined along the wall behind the bar to decide what to order before I nuzzled in on their conversation when the sight of a portrait hanging on the wall stopped me dead.

It was large, and housed in a heavy, ornate frame. A pair of fierce dark eyes stared back at me from within a face of glowing, devastating beauty.Myeyes.Myface. At least, what had used to be my face.

I cringed down, feeling suddenly exposed, like everyone around me was staring between me and that portrait and realising I was their runaway queen. Thewhorequeen. Themurdererqueen. The one they could blame for the state of their country and their lives.

But as I glanced around, reason reasserted itself. No one was looking at me. They didn’t associate that formidable, beautiful woman on the wall with the scarred, travel-worn one cowering at the bar. I remembered the odd way Draven had looked at that portrait when he’d seen it being painted, realising why he had reacted so strangely to it. Because he’d never seen me as the woman on the wall. The difference must have been staggering to him, to see the glamor he’d cast but never been subjected to. It would be as staggering a difference to the people in this tavern. They might even laugh if I were to claim myself as that woman in the portrait, thinking me just some mad wretch whose mind had turned.

The man to my right finally collected all of his mugs, threading his fingers through the handles and drawing away with them all clinking together and slopping beer over the rims. In the sudden space beside me, I caught the wordsPrincess Gwinellynspoken in a tense murmur a little further down the bar. I whipped my head around, quickly finding their source, eyes narrowing on a bar maid as she leaned in to exchange a low conversation with one of her patrons. Her hair was frazzled and slipping out of the knot at the base of her neck, and her skin was tired and creased, but her eyes were bright with excitement as she spoke to the bearded gent watching her with an expression that looked caught between shock and amusement. I drew a little closer, straining my ears to hear while trying not to look like I was listening.

‘Sheis, I swear it. I’ve heard the same story from at least three different people now. Princess Gwinellyn is alive and she’s on the road to Oceatold.’

Cold horror slipped down my spine, curdling in my stomach as I watched the bearded man hiking up his eyebrows.

‘That’s some rumour, Margie,’ he said, leaning closer. ‘Princess Gwinellyn?On the road to Oceatold? Where would that kind of story have even come from?’

‘There were a family who shared a fire with her. She has a band of soldiers escorting her to the border, and the king of Oceatold is only waiting on her arrival to launch a full-scale invasion,’ she continued, her cheeks flushed with excitement, now. ‘We already know the Grand Weaver is in Oceatold, and a handful of other lords. They’re all just waiting for her to join them and they’ll have the Shadow King by the throat.’

‘Maybe keep some of those ideas to yourself,’ he replied, glancing down the bar just as I averted my eyes, pretending to busy myself with my coin purse. ‘Speaking of such things so merrily treads dangerously close to treason.’

The bar maid visibly bristled, planting her hands on her hips as she straightened up. ‘Well, I’ll know to keep you in the dark from now on. If you don’t like hearing stories, then don’t ask for them.’

He leaned across the bar, lowering his voice. ‘There’s better places to peddle your stories. You could sell it to the king. You know he pays good money for those kinds of rumours.’

I backed away from the bar and began to scan the room for Deathie, feeling sick to my stomach. We had to get out of here. Out of this tavern, out of this town. And we had to get outnow.

When we returned to camp, Goras and Tanathil were already done with their little jaunt into town. They were carefully distributing what food they’d managed to buy between the saddle bags while Kelvhan fed the horses.

‘Has Gwinellyn returned?’ I asked as soon as Goras looked up to see me approaching.

‘No,’ he said, frowning as he studied my face, before his eyes glazed over in a look I was beginning to recognise.

‘Don’t you dare,’ I snapped, holding up a finger in warning at the first brush of magic against me. ‘You know how I feel about you all touching me with magic. If you have a question, you can ask it. Or I’m sure you can use your damn eyes and see perfectly well that I’m angry.’

‘Then speak. Did you have trouble?’ he said, folding his arms as his eyes cleared.

‘No. But we need to be ready to move as soon as the others return. Have you seen them since we all split off?’

‘What’s the hurry?’ Tanathil asked, leaving the saddle bag he’d been carefully rearranging and rising to his feet, dusting his hands off on his legs as he did. ‘We just arrived. I thought we were planning on staying the night.’

‘Plans change,’ I said. ‘It’s too dangerous to stay here.’

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