My attention drops to my tankard as I try to steer the conversation back to Rian. “You’ll find things to like about Lord Rian, too. He’s twenty-eight years old. Your father could have sold you to a man twice his age. He’s known for his physical prowess and his shrewd dealings. Every woman in Duren would kill to wear his ring, probably even in all of Astagnon. But he chose you.”
Sabine takes her time swallowing a few bites of soup. “So because he’s young and attractive, I should be pleased that I was bought without being consulted on the matter?” Her amicable tone has soured.
I drink deeply from my tankard, the sour ale splashing down my throat to settle uneasily in my belly. I wipe my mouth with the back of one hand. “He’s richer than sin, too. Don’t tell me that doesn’t matter.”
She scoffs, shaking her head like I can’t possibly understand, and returns to the chicken, presumably for better conversation.
The innkeeper hesitantly interrupts. “Can I get you anything else, sir? My lady?”
I push to my feet, the chair groaning as it scrapes on the stone floor. I jerk my head toward the mercantile corner. “We need supplies.”
While Sabine converses with the chicken, and a cat that’s sauntered in to take my place at the table, I browse through the wares for sale.
“A length of rope,” I tell the innkeeper. Tying Sabine’s ankles and wrists every night has left me short on supplies. “And three apples. Oh—and that blanket.”
As I make room for the goods in my rucksack, I spot Lord Charlin’s sealed letter. It’s none of my business, but I am curious about what secret it contains that he believes is so powerful that Rian will acquiesce to his demands.
Does Sabine know what’s in it?
I’ll have to let my curiosity go hungry, because of that damn seal. The sealing wax Lord Charlin used turns black if reheated, so there’s no way to open it stealthily.
The innkeeper keeps flinging anxious glances out the window like she’s skipping rocks. When I pay her, she distractedly drops the coins in her apron pocket.
“Eh? Oh, yes. Thank you, sir.”
I frown. There’s something wrong if I’m not the primary source of her worries. Whenever I’m in the room, people usually keep their eyes on me, my bow, or the nearest exit.
“Something the matter?” I ask slowly.
Her fingers move to clutch her dress’s uppermost button. “I was just keeping a close eye on your lady’s mare outside. That’s a fine horse, and, well, we’ve seen a bit of trouble these past few days.”
A warning instinct prickles along my spine. “What manner of trouble?”
Her eyes skate nervously around the common room, as she lowers her voice so as not to alarm her patrons. “A boy from a village about three miles from here went missing. Not but six years old, the poor thing.”
“He could have run off. Boys do at that age.”
Chewing her lip, she confides, “A shepherd claims he saw Volkish riders take him north.”
Volkish riders? Impossible. The border between Astagnon and Volkany closed five hundred years ago, after a war that nearly decimated both kingdoms. Our two lands’ struggles began when the Immortal Court, who’d woven themselves deeply into the threads of both kingdoms, simply went to sleep one day without warning. In other words, they fucking abandoned us. Overnight, crops that had thrived under Immortal Solene’s earthy magic withered. Entire towns built with Immortal Vale’s framework magic crumbled.
Astagnon fared better. We had arable land, and we’d never been as dependent on the gods. But Volkany, with its large godkissed population, had thrown all their cards in with the Immortal Court. Every aspect of their kingdom ran on godly favor—a necessity in a wild land filled with rugged mountains and impenetrable forests. Volkish rule fractured into lawless regions run by bandit-lords, who soon set their sights on our rich soil. After a century and a half of attacks on our lands, the Volkish rulers came together to create a godkissed army, and the great war began. When we defeated them, the Astagnonian army built a towering wall along the entire northern border to seal off Volkany, reinforced by godkissed spell craft that was supposed to be permanently impregnable.
For centuries, that’s been it. Ancient history. No one has seen or heard anything from the Kingdom of Volkany besides a few tidbits that sailors traveling from our coast to theirs gleaned. Apparently, a new king named Rachillon managed to reunify the fractured regions and now rules under one Volkish crown, but little is known about him.
Everything else is just rumors:
Rachillon is mad with power.
A deadly monoceros woke from its thousand-year slumber and slaughtered a village.
A woodcutter found Immortal Vale’s resting place in the Volkish side of the Blackened Forest.
To the innkeeper, I say with an edge in my voice, “The shepherd must be mistaken.”
The old woman presses a hand to her throat. “Perhaps, sir. But also—also, the boy was godkissed.”
A stitch pulls in my side. The great war was fought in part because Volkany tried to bring all godkissed into their borders. But that was five hundred years ago. “What was his power?”
“He could rot tree roots. It was useful for falling trees. He could clear an entire forest in a day if he wanted to. His father planned to take him to a logging camp in Mag Na Tir, where his services would be highly compensated. He isn’t the first godkissed to go missing around here, either. There was a godkissed soldier stationed in Marblenz who vanished two weeks ago. He could scry.”
I let this information find fallow ground in my mind. It could be more baseless gossip, but if it’s true, what would Volkany want with a godkissed boy who can fall trees and a scrying soldier? And how the fuck did their soldiers get over the wall?
“I’m just saying, take care on the road, sir.” The innkeeper entreats me as her eyes slide behind me to where Sabine is holding court with the chicken and cat. “That’s her, isn’t it? The noblewoman everyone’s been talking about, who was sold to one of the Valvere sons?” She pauses before saying meaningfully, “She’s godkissed, too, isn’t she?”
I tighten my jaw. I don’t like what the innkeeper is implying about Sabine being a target for raiders. “Thank you for your warning. We’ll be fine.”
Mulling over our options, I pull Sabine to her feet by her upper arm, interrupting whatever silent conversation she was having with livestock. This news has me on edge. We’re headed north, in the same direction as these supposed Volkish riders.
“Wolf?” She skitters as I drag her backward toward the door. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Something happened.”
“Nope.”
I shoulder open the door, thrusting us into bright sunlight. My eyes case the road in both directions. I can see about three times farther than the average person and in much greater detail. There’s no sign of any other travelers.
I pitch my head up to judge the position of the sun. “I’ve decided that we’ll bypass Middleford and take the road west through Mag Na Tir Forest instead.”
She frowns. “Lord Rian ordered us to pass through Middleford.”