Page 48 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
I think I mean to argue back, but I never do. I’m already asleep, dreamless, and oblivious to whomever lies beside me.
15
rhywbeth prin a hyfryd
(SOMETHING RARE AND LOVELY)
I wake the next morning beneath the blanket, still wearing my blouse and skirt. I turn onto my side, expecting to see Neirin beside me in Ceridwen’s usual place, but his pillow is gone, and when I reach across the bed the right side of the mattress is cold and untouched. I sit up, surprised, to find that Neirin has left the room entirely. The missing pillow has been discarded on the window seat, along with a blanket of silver-spun cobwebs that turns back to dust the moment I look at it.
His absence affords me the time to wash and gather myself before I join him in the empty tavern below. He is leaning against the bar, staring out a window.
“Looking for the human?” Neirin throws a lazy smile over his shoulder.
I lean beside him with my arms crossed. “I wasn’t, but now I assume you want to talk about him.”
He beams, brighter than the light filtering in through the windows. “He’s gone.”
“Gone?” I stare at him questioningly.
Neirin nods, evidently pleased with himself. “I spoke to the landlord on your behalf—paid him a generous sum, too—and he released—”
“On my behalf?” I repeat, incredulous. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”
Neirin blinks, but his cheerful expression doesn’t falter. “I thought I’d surprise you. See? I can be nice.”
I can’t think of a way to explain to Neirin that I don’t really care what happens to Richard. When I looked at him, I was only seeing myself—and the horror of what could’ve become of me without Neirin’s intervention. In fact, I really don’t want to tell Neirin that at all, because it will make him unbearable.
“Where did he go?” I ask instead.
“I don’t know.” Neirin’s expression contorts, as though he’s surprised that I’m not heaping praise at his feet. “He was quite ill-tempered, actually, when he was freed—”
I give him a droll look. “I wonder why.”
Neirin shrugs, genuinely uncertain. “He’s free. He said something about needing to go and find his wife, then took off. You’d think he’d be grateful.”
“His wife is probably long dead,” I tell him. “And he’ll probably be trapped into servitude again by lunch.”
Something like awareness flickers over Neirin’s perfect features, then melts as quickly as a dusting of snow. “If he hasn’t figured out, after thirty years of that nonsense, that handing over his name to anyone who asks probably isn’t the smartest move, then he deserves whatever happens to him.”
I resist the urge to laugh at his bluntness, though a smile still works its way onto my face. I don’t know why he wanted to make me happy, and I hesitate to ask in case his reply is something awful.
“Thirty years,” I repeat instead.
He meets my eyes, holds them hostage. “You haven’t even had a chance to live that long yet.”
“And he spent all that time here, cleaning cups,” I say, before a cold realization washes over me. “It’s probably not that different from what he would’ve done at home. I’ll spend that long stocking shelves at the shop before I even know it.”
His face softens. “It doesn’t have to be like that. If you win.”
Neirin hesitates then, like he has something else to tell me. He glances at the door, then back at me, and somewhere in that brief second I see him decide to keep quiet. I tell myself it’s for the best, but my curiosity is piqued, and it scratches at the back of my mind as we leave. I long to know what he’s thinking. I’d like to crack his head open like an egg and scoop the thoughts out onto a porcelain plate. If whatever he had to say is bad enough to stay his poisonous tongue, then it must be very bad indeed—and so all the more intriguing.
We leave the village early, our progress marked by the changing landscape. The dark pine needles of Peg’s land leak into another cool, green valley and then a barren mountain pass, where rain lashes down and sheer rock rises into the clouds, its seams cutting deep into the earth.
A cyhyraeth wails from the mists high above our heads, warning of a death to come.
Neirin points to the sky. “Not a good sign for you, mortal.”
I swing for his back but trip over a misplaced rock. He catches my arm as my fist’s still balled, and rights me.
