She saidprince.
Prince Pendefyre.
I guess that explains his men’s calling him Penn.
Because he isn’t Scythe at all.
I knew already. Of course I knew. As soon as I realized he bore no true allegiance to King Eld’s army, I’d assumed his name itself was likely a fabrication. Still, suspecting a thing and hearing it officially confirmed are two entirely separate realities. My mind rearranges all I’ve seen and heard these past few days, since he thundered into my life. I struggle to reconcile the beast of a man beside me with royalty.
Royalty.
He is a prince of a bloody Northlands kingdom.
But which one?
I can picture the northern territories—a stretch of glacial tundra spanning beyond the Cimmerian Mountains—but at the moment, I can recall only the name of the most famous. The most barbaric.
Llyr.
King Soren rules that frozen iceberg beyond the Avian Strait, his brutality as far-reaching as his archers’ arrows in battle. I can be grateful at least that I have not fallen intohishands…though, for all I know, Prince Pendefyre is a direct relative of that notorious brute.
A brother, perhaps?
A cousin?
A son?
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Scythe—Penn—is saying from beside me. “We mean to pass through without any fanfare, notadvertise our presence here. Ridiculous royal protocols only draw unnecessary attention. Better if you treat us like any of your other guests. I trust you understand?”
She is already pale but somehow seems to pale even further as she rises from her hasty curtsy. “Of course. I’m sorry, Your Hi—I mean, my lord.” Her throat works as she swallows down her nerves. “I’ll see to your rooms right away.” Her eyes move once more to me. “I assume the lady will have her own chambers?”
“Your assumption is unwarranted.”
My heart quails at his flat contradiction. The innkeeper must see my horrified look because, prince or no, she pins Penn with a steely glance that suggests she is not to be trifled with.
“The lady is barely able to stand upright. She needs a proper bath and fresh clothes and, more than likely, a moment of peace judging by her haggard appearance.” With that, she steps firmly forward, slides an arm around my shoulders, and pulls me from the huddle of warriors who’ve ensconced me from all sides. “Come, lass. We’ll get you cleaned up and tucked into bed. Nothing like a warm meal and clean sheets after an ordeal.”
I hear Penn sigh, a deep rattle of resignation, but he does not object. I’m too tired to protest as the kindhearted woman leads me across the tavern to a creaky set of stairs tucked behind the bar.
I do not look back at the men.
But I know they watch me go—along with every other set of curious eyes in the inn.
I gape atthe girl staring back at me from the mirror’s age-fogged surface. My reflection is unrecognizable. If I passed myself on the street at market, I wouldn’t pause. I look like a skeletal stranger. A shadow of my former self—cheeks hollowed, bonesjutting. Beneath the layer of filth, there are rings of exhaustion bruising my eyes and a gaunt, guarded look in their silvery depths that makes me flinch.
“Come, my lady.”
I turn to look at the innkeeper. While I used the chamber pot tucked discreetly behind a trifold privacy screen—a luxury, after weeks of crouching in the shrubbery to relieve myself—and examined my ghastly reflection, she and two scullery maids have been busy filling a deep tub with steaming water, one bucket at a time. Their efficiency makes the arduous task look easy when I know it to be anything but.
“You don’t need to call me that,” I half whisper, feeling heat steal across my cheeks.
“Call you what?”
“My lady.”
“Oh?” Her brows arch. “And why is that? You’re my guest here, are you not?”
“It’s just…” I gesture lamely at my ears, their pointed tips poking through the matted pale mane tangled around my head. “I’m no lady. I’m just…a halfling.”