Page 167 of The Last One
I laugh. “I’m notmarryingCaburh, Ealdrehrt. Just coming for the luclite and a roast.” I wait a beat. “You’ve stayed here before?”
“A long time ago,” he says.
The complexions of people in this town remind me of apple varieties—from the rich pinks and bright yellow-greens to the deep reds that are almost blue. The women wear light fabrics that breathe, their hair pulled back in ponytails. The men wear embroidered tunics with the hair on their heads and faces in parted tufts.
But even with their wealth and abundance, the coopers and farmers, millers and mothers of this town also glow with death—just softer cornsilk than the urgent amber of Maford. Some of the people here stare at me just as Mafordians, but not because I’m running near-naked through their town. They gape at me because my hair is still too big and my height is still astounding.
Nausea roils my stomach and kills my earlier excitement. What creative names willthesepeople hurl at me? Gutterslag? Lint-licker? The Most Beautiful Girl in the World, but ironically?
Jadon, on the other hand, is met with warm smiles and long glances of another sort. He’s the fairest of them all and can have any admirer he wants. The young women chirp, “Good day,” and “How are you,” and “What a nice big sword you have,” and he flushes from their attention.
One woman turns to walk backward. “I rememberyou.” Her friends tug her along.
“You were here a long time ago?” I ask Jadon once we’re out of earshot of his admirers.
“I passed through,” he says, looking sheepish. “Didn’t stay long.”
I peek over my shoulder at the young woman. “Long enough.” Was she one of the girls Jadon kissed who wasn’tthe one? I push down the grinding pressure rising in my chest and focus instead on my surroundings.
There aren’t many trees in Caburh, and the few there are lack healthy leaves…or have no leaves at all. Tree trunks have been carved with countless initials and hearts, crossed-out names, and a series of numbers that must have meaning to someone somewhere.
Miasma is here. From some of the houses we pass, I hear the same chronic and troublesome coughing that I heard in Maford. I see too many handkerchiefs soiled with phlegm and blood forgotten in that overgrown grass or discarded on those slick cobblestones.
I search for the inn we’ll stay in tonight. “The Broken Hammer is run by my friend Separi,” Veril had told me. “That woman is the best of us. In the Great War, we fought side by side. She once enchanted a rushing river to look like a brothel, but the brothel was actually a waterfall and the Dashmala tumbled to their deaths.”
Another reason Sinth would’ve hated Veril.
Another trio of young women passes us, ponytails swinging. They make eyes at Jadon and scowl at me. The blonde says, “Why is he withthatmuckdweller?”
Philia tenses beside me and grabs her mace.
Jadon says, “No, Philia. Fuck them. Keep moving.”
My stomach plunges to my feet. My hands are more than ready to join Philia’s mace.
Philia grins at the blonde and her friends. “Wanna say that again?”
The trio quickens their steps and rounds the corner.
Philia lifts her chin. “Ithoughtso.”
I smile and wink at her like she’s my daughter, growing up in my image.
At last, we reach the Broken Hammer. It’s three stories tall and boasts a stone roof of glistening white-and-gray quartz and walls of knot-free redwood. Seven chimneys; smoke drifts from three. As the tallest building in Caburh, the inn is also the loudest. There’s singing and laughing, banging cups and rolling barrels. Townspeople stumble out of the red double doors, arms slung around shoulders, with glazed eyes and slick chins.
A Renrian woman stands at the door to the inn, talking to a child. She resembles a vanilla bean pod—long, skinny, and dark brown. Giggling, the child runs back into the inn.
Jadon calls out, “Excuse me.”
The woman turns, and her eyes widen. Gold charms clamp thick braids that fall to the small of her back. Her cheekbones are elegant and sharp. She’s a stylish woman with flat black eyes, wearing a lavender silk waistcoat and matching velvet breeches. She gawks at me, not speaking as we approach.
My stomach roils and my knees go mushy, and the moment we’ve been waiting for—rejection—is about to happen. I force myself to push through my nervousness, and I hold up a gloved hand to wave. “Are you Separi Eleweg the Advertent?”
Still gawking, the woman nods.
I exhale. “I’m—”
She bows her head. “No need to introduce yourself, Lady.”
