I don’t tell Farley this. Because I like Farley. Hell, I even like Jac and Mabon and Uther. But my feelings toward the man who made me his captive are decidedly less clear-cut.
There is absolutely nothingsafeabout Commander Scythe.
Penn.
Whoever he is.
Nice as it is to entertain the notion of genuine companionship again after so long on my own…there is no chance in hell I’m about to let my guard down around these men.
Not today.
Not ever.
My hands slip into the deep pockets of my gown as we continue to walk, gripping the dagger concealed there. Though I know my actions are hidden from his vantage, I cannot shake thefeeling that the helmed man trailing a dozen paces behind me can somehow see straight through the folds of his cloak on my shoulders, to my hand as it curls around the hilt.
My grip is so tight, my fingers are numb from far more than the cold by the time we reach the outskirts of Vintare.
Chapter
Eleven
Vintare isn’t so much a town as it is an outpost for frostbitten travelers. Tucked deep in the dip between two misshapen peaks, the scattered collection of buildings—some no more than shacks to shield from the wind—rings a central square of hard-packed snow. Large barreled firepits pepper the area, bastions of welcome beckoning us in from the elements.
It is barely midafternoon and already dusk is pressing down upon us, the meager day yielding to greedy night. At this elevation, the sky feels so close you might reach out and run your fingers along the underside of a cloud, snatch a handful of mist straight from the heavens. As I take in the settlement sprawling before me, a tiny oasis of warmth against the endless chill, I cannot deny there is something starkly beautiful about it. Despite the biting cold, despite the unfortunate circumstances that led me here, I find my eyes widening to drink in every detail.
People are bustling about in shapeless mountain garb. They eye us warily as we limp inside the town limits—covered in dried venom, filthy from long days in the wild, the men strapped with more weapons than an armory. None of them greet us. Most keep their eyes firmly averted.
I don’t blame them for their surreptitious glances any morethan for their scurrying out of our path. We are a hair-raising lot. We look like trouble at best, and we smell even worse.
The inn is instantly recognizable, seeing as it is the only structure taller than a single story. Several horses are tied to posts in front—mountain stock with blond hair feathering their hooves and thick, furry coats, bred to withstand the plummeting temperatures. Beside them, to my unexpected delight, I see two teams of black-and-white sled dogs lashed to a pair of sleek carved sleighs, awaiting their masters’ return. They are so large, I almost mistake them for wolves…until I spot their lolling tongues and wagging tails.
With Onyx hooked to a post outside, happily munching from the communal hay trough, and Farley once again slung between Uther and Mabon, we step onto the porch and approach the front door. The building is constructed in a stacked-log style, with frosted windows gouged at uneven intervals. Through the thick glass panes, light and laughter trickle into the night—the latter of which ceases the moment we step over the threshold, the snow caking our boots melting onto the planked wood flooring.
Every head whips to the door with undisguised curiosity. Conversations halt midword. The fiddle player’s note falls off with a tuneless screech of strings. For a long while, there is only silence as they examine us, and we them. Vintare may be a mountain outpost, accustomed to travelers of all kinds, but our appearance is such that it could shake the unshakable.
The innkeeper, bless her, recovers first. With nary a word to us, she snaps her fingers at the two male servants standing behind the bar and points at Farley. “Bring him back into the healer’s chambers. Get him settled, best you can manage.”
The manservants do not hesitate before lurching into motion. Her word is law, her authority absolute. As Farley is transferred into their care, the innkeeper turns her attention to the rest of us.She sees me, the sole female figure amid a collection of savage warriors, and bustles my way in a swish of brown skirts.
Scythe and Jac both tense at my sides, but she does not even spare them a glance. Her rounded frame pushes directly to me, and as she gets an up-close glance at my face, she gasps.
“Heavens, my lady! Whatever happened to you?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I was kidnapped mid-execution, nearly died of a raging fever, narrowly escaped demise on a decrepit rope bridge, and battled a den of carnivorous cyntroedi?”
She blinks at me, eyes like saucers.
Scythe’s elbow digs sharply into my side, a clear warning to shut my mouth. His voice is tense. “We’ll need two rooms. Adjacent, if possible.”
The innkeeper doesn’t even look at him. Her gaze is locked on my face, the picture of motherly concern. Or what I imagine to be motherly concern, as I’ve never had a mother of my own. “She’ll be getting a bath, first and foremost. I don’t know where you heathens hail from, but in my inn—”
“Madame,” Jac interrupts, his tone infused with ill-concealed amusement, “you might want to look at whom you’re speaking to before you start tossing insults.”
Her light brown eyes move first to Jac, then to Scythe, at which point she pales and immediately begins spewing apologies. “Oh! Pende—I mean, Prince Penn! Your Highness—” A blush steals up her cheeks as she struggles to recall his proper title. Her hands fist nervously in front of her apron. She settles on “Prince Pendefyre,” taking a trembling breath. “I did not recognize you beneath the helm. I should have. I beg your deepest pardon for the mistake. It will never happen again, I assure you.” She dips into a belated curtsy, her movements out of practice.
My body stills, every muscle turning to stone as her words process.
Prince.