Page 58 of The Shadow Prince's Ruin
“I’ll go first.” I reach for the first rung of the ladder and drag it down, so I can step on it, but sigh in frustration when I discover it’s beyond my reach. “A lift, please?”
Hawk chuckles, and the ease with which he can pick me up never fails to amaze me.
As I start climbing, I shroud myself in a pale veil of shadow. “It’s not much,” I explain, “but I might be able to hide for a moment if it’s needed.”
He’s right behind me, and while I roll my eyes, I suppose it’s best for us to not lose sight of one another.
The way up only takes a moment, and then I’m hesitantly touching the rough wood of the trapdoor, listening to whatever might surprise us on the other side. But I hear nothing, and while my stomach is shrinking from worry, I can’t be a coward in front of the man who agreed to give me his shadow.
I push the door up with the same kind of abruptness Kurt once tore off my Band-Aid, and the moment warm light touches my face, the world flips, and I’m falling.
I yelp, even though I told myself I need to keep silent. To make matters worse, Hawk is right behind me with his massive backpack.
I hit fabric first, but it doesn’t break our fall much when we drop to… a bed?
I panic when something moves right under me, and I’m about to stab it with a dagger I took from Tassarion’s when the creature yells from beneath the fabric.
“What in the Darkmoon!?”
Chapter 22
Hawk
Ijerk up to my knees in a frenzy, and when my toes find only empty space, the heavy backpack weighs me down. With a yelp of panic, I fall another dozen of inches, and finally stop with my eyes glued to the open hatch in the ceiling above. What I see there makes no sense, because the cave floor we stood on not that long ago is now... up there. As if the small square door is where gravity flips.
Did we fall…in reverse? It’s not something my brain can accept at face value, but as a fabric-covered shape jerks under Sylvan, he too jumps off the massive bed we’ve landed on with a high-pitched shriek. That’s all the motivation I need. Nothing’s going to happen to him on my watch!
But as I get to my feet and am about to reach for a sword hanging on the wall, the velvet blanket uncovers the monster we’ve accosted, and as it turns out… it was no monster at all.
Sky blue eyes watch me from a face handsome as if it’s been chiseled by one of those famous artists from Italy. He’s young,with red hair styled into elaborate braids. He could be a model, if it wasn’t for the scar cutting across his cheek.
“What… are you?” I ask, pulling Sylvan behind me as we both study the stranger staring back at us from a massive wooden bed with a dragon-shaped headboard.
“What amI?” the stranger asks, adjusting his black shirt. He has the same elongated ears as Sylvan, but his accent is deeper, more melodic. He takes us in, much less fazed than I would have been if two men had woken me up by falling on top of me from the ceiling. “It is you who crawled into my bed without permission.”
“This is not what we expected, but we will be on our way,” Sylvan says, but the man isn’t having it and grabs his wrist.
I slap it away, and the stranger frowns at me. He stands on the bed, hands on hips, as if attempting to show off his belt made out of a variety of coins. Not that he has any pants. He wears the belt over the shirt, which is fortunately long enough to just about cover his crotch.
“I demand an explanation. You came from Tassarion’s forge, and he always gives me a heads-up about anyone passing through.Andpays for it.”
When Sylvan and I both remain silent, wondering how to respond, the man continues. “There’s but one explanation: Tassarion is no more.”
“That’s a bit far-fetched—” I try.
The elf silences me with a gesture. “Unfortunate. He and I had a good working relationship for over twenty years. Alas, what’s done cannot be undone,” he says and grabs the slender yet intricately decorated blade off the wall. I’m ready to dash for the nearby stool, to use it as a shield, but the man leaps onto the floor with the grace of a buck in his prime and offers us a smile. “No matter. At least I no longer owe him a debt for thisbeauty. Best sword I ever had. It’s a pity he won’t make any more weapons of such prime quality.”
Sylvan releases a long sigh, but his shoulders loosen a little. “We shall bother you no more—” he tries, but is once more thwarted by the chatty elf.
“I do not advise that. You,” he points to me with his sword, “are human, and you,” he turns to Sylvan, “are the shortest elf in the Realm, Prince Sylvan Goldweed. Banished. Therefore you must be here illegally.”
Sylvan’s face turns pink. “I do not need to explain anything to you!”
The elf spreads his arms. “Where are my manners? Maybe if you know who I am, it will be easier for us to speak plainly about your predicament, Your Highness. I am Fenren, King of Smugglers, and Procurer of Things. I too walk the shadowed path, only adjacent to the law. I see no silver collar around your neck, but the purple burns on your throat tell me it has not been taken off by our benevolent Lord of the Nocturne Court. If you walk out of my tavern like this, who knows how fast the news of your arrival will spread?”
I stare at him in horror, because if he could identify us both so easily, then so can everyone else. We need to rethink this. As my thoughts drift to the possible disguises we could utilize, I take in the dark interior illuminated with just a few candles. Panels of carved wood decorate all the walls, heavy velvet curtains obscure the only window, and… gargoyles stare at us from every corner of the ceiling. This place looks like the fever dream of a rich goth chick.
I squeeze Sylvan’s shoulder as he stiffens, touching the marks on his neck. “No… the grimsmith did that.”
