Page 39 of Vale of Dreams

“Humans weren’t the first thing Auberon unleashed his dragons on,” she continues. “He started with his own people. Half of Brocéliande burned to death. Auberon blamed the revolutionaries for killing his son, the crown prince Lothyr. He lost his mind. The revolutionaries were left as nothing but ashes, and all the leaders were executed in front of the castle. Ripped limb from limb, their entrails dragged?—”

“I don’t need the details.”

“Anyway, Meriadec was part of that Scorched Earth Revolution. And probably one of the few who survived. Years ago, we established contact with him, and he worked with us for a time. Whether he still will—well, I suppose we’re about to find out.”

I point ahead at the large wooden stables. “We’re here.”

I slip inside, Nivene following close behind. The timber and stone structure is unguarded, dimly lit by oil lamps that cast warm light over the horses in their stalls.

I beeline to Holly, a dark mare that Cadoc loves. She’s fast and reliable but isn’t one of the royal horses that’ll get noticed when we get to the gate. Nivene crosses to another stall, eying a large white horse. “Not that one,” I whisper. “It belongs to the prince’s cousin. Take the brown one over there. His name is Madog.”

She quickly turns and grabs Madog. We saddle both horses, then lead them outside. Once we clear the stable, we leap onto our horses. Holly snorts, maybe realizing that I’m not her usual rider. I pat her neck, then trot her back toward the gate in the eastern wall.

There’s an art to going past enemy sentries. You can’t avoid their eyes completely, because that looks suspicious, but you can’t stare at them like some sort of weirdo, either. Raphael once taught me how to do it. You picture someone you know, but not too well. Like a neighbor you see a few times a week. You imagine that it’s him, and that you’ve just seen him the day before. If you manage to convince yourself, then you give him just the right kind of casual smile. That sort of short recognition of connection between acquaintances who avoid small talk with each other.

I exchange that look with the guard. He nods at me, then opens the gate.

Relief sweeps through me.

We ride out of Corbinelle, into the night, and the wind rushes over us. I take in the landscape, silver-red in the moonlight. It’s not long before we pass charred stone walls, abandoned villages of crushed roofs and blackened stones, and a collapsed bridge with jagged stones that tumble into a river. Clearly, when Auberon fears a threat to his crown, his response is swift, brutal, and bloody.

The Shadowed Thicket reeks of yesterday’s booze, sweat, and dirt. This tavern is the sort of place people visit in search of one specific aim: getting obliterated.

When we step in, hours after midnight, there’s only a handful of patrons left. Most sit alone. A trio of men are trying to sing together, though it sounds like each one is singing a different tune.

“Any idea how to find him?” I ask Nivene.

“Give me a second.” She sidles up to the bar, then waves over the bartender. “We’ll have two…whatever.”

“Two whatever coming right up.” He picks up two smudged glasses, then pours a pale golden drink in them.

Nivene takes a long sip from her mug and licks her lips. “This is good. Almost as good as the mead I drank at my coming-of-age dance, back in Saxa.” She speaks loudly, clearly.

The barman seems to freeze. He stares at her for a long while, then leaves through a door in the back.

“He seems to recognize the pass phrase,” Nivene whispers. She takes another sip, looking around her.

I bring the glass to my lips. I’m not an expert in Fey meads, but even to my untrained palette, this stuff is nearly undrinkable. It tastes like fermented cough medicine. No wonder the pass phrase starts with “this is good.” These words were probably never uttered here by mere chance.

Within another minute, a man sits down on the bar stool next to Nivene. His long brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and he wears a maroon cloak. His cheeks look gaunt, his skin pale.

“Hello, Meriadec,” Nivene says.

“Nivene.” He takes a sip of mead from Nivene’s glass and stares at me over the rim. “Are you going to use my real name in front of strangers as a matter of course, or just around the pretty ones?”

“You can trust her,” says Nivene. “She’s a demi-Fey from Avalon Tower.”

“I trust no one.” He shoves her glass back into her hand. “That’s why I’m still alive. Where’s Alix?”

“Dead.” She says this with almost no emotion.

His hazel eyes widen. “I’m sorry to hear that. Your sister was a decent person. Honorable. And she never pissed me off, which is more than I can say for you.”

Nivene smirks. “Well, she would have appreciated your touching eulogy. We need your help.”

“No.”

“No? This is your moment, Meriadec. The moment you’ve been waiting for. This is your chance for revenge for everything they’ve done. For the Scorched Earth Revolution—for everything.”

---