Page 101 of Vale of Dreams

This is, of course, a very Talan thing to do. A random, chaotic, outrageous demand that will get everyone rolling their eyes at the capricious prince. And it hides his true intention—to keep anyone from approaching the ley portal.

Obviously, a tree planted at this very position, constantly guarded by four men, is not a coincidence. Nor does it have a single fucking thing to do with our “love.”

Panic bleeds into my thoughts. He knows about the portal, and he probably suspects that it’s being used by human agents. The only bright spot is that he isn’t connecting these agents to me, or I’d already be in the dungeons, my bones breaking on a rack. But why go through the charade of telling the guards that they’re guarding a tree?

Because no one else knows about this ley portal. That must be the reason. Specifically, Auberon doesn’t know about it, and Talan wants to control and use that knowledge for his own agenda.

Why now?

It must be because of Arwenna’s attempt on my life. He’s assuming that the iron was smuggled through the portal. Stupid of her to use an iron-tipped arrow right next to the prince himself. Clearly, the woman isn’t in her right mind anymore. If she gets caught, I wonder if her family will have enough wealth and political capital to get her out of the consequences.

But where did she get the iron? There is no iron in Brocéliande. The only people who might have it are likely to be working with me.

But that’s a problem for later. Right now, I have a much more urgent problem. I have two days to get a message to Avalon Tower about Talan’s trap.

And I have no conceivable way of getting to them.

The tavern’s lights beam warmly onto the dirt road, and as I step inside the Shadowed Thicket, the smell of stale beer hits me.

My heart thrums as I look around me. This late at night, there are a few drunks here and there. A group of men are laughing uproariously at some joke one of them made, and the jokester seems positively pleased with himself. I suddenly envy them. I wish that could be me, having a simple night with friends with no immediate worries except for tomorrow’s hangover.

I cross to the barman. “Hey,” I say. “Remember me?”

He wipes a glass, his expression bored. “What can I get ya?”

“I need to see Meriadec. It’s urgent.”

“Sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name. I have a niece called Merielle, but she turned into a right twat when her girlfriend dumped her.”

I grip the bar. “Oh, come on. I was here just a few weeks ago.”

“And now you’re here again. It’s understandable. Best mead in Corbinelle.”

Vaguely, it reminds me of the pass phrase that Nivene used. “Right. Okay…give me a glass of that mead.”

He puts the glass he had been wiping on the counter and pours a measure of a nefarious looking liquid. I take a sip. Ghastly.

I eye him. “This is good. Almost as good as the mead I drank at my coming-of-age dance, back in, uh…” My mind is drawing a blank. “You know. Back in that place. Where I had my coming-of-age dance.”

“Uh-huh.” He picks up a new glass and steadily begins to wipe it.

“Come on! This mead is good. That’s the phrase, right? It tastes like piss in reality. You can’t possibly hear that often. Or really, ever.”

He stops wiping the glass and fixes his stare on me. “That mead is my ma’s recipe.”

“Oh.”

“She died in the famine.”

“I’m, uh…sorry for your loss. But I really need to see Meriadec.”

He nods. “I can see if my niece is interested. You might be her type.”

“It’s all right, Brados.”

I turn to see Meriadec shuffling over, and he takes the stool next to me. “She’s good.”

“Didn’t know the pass phrase,” Brados says pointedly, “and she insulted my dear ma’s mead.”

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