Page 66 of Fate of Echoes and Embers
“It was named after an ancient Gyorian hero,” Ilyas said. “Known for his diplomatic efforts between the Gyorian clans and humans, he helped to establish safe passage routes fostering rare moments of peace and mutual respect during a tumultuous time. This location was said to have been one of his final stops. After his death, a fading he had long desired after so many years of war, this became a haven for non-Gyorian travelers of a certain… breed.”
“I understand,” Issa said with a glance toward me. She didn’t seem to judge, though. It was a mere statement of fact, as if the friends and network I’d made throughout the years weren’t as appalling to her as they perhaps should be.
We stepped inside, the air smelling of salt and iron. Dimly lit sconces cast flickering shadows across the walls. The floors were worn stone, the furniture sturdy but unadorned. Its main room featured a large hearth and was filled with quiet conversations in hushed tones.
“I leave you here,” Ilyas said. “To await your guest. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Isolde.”
“And yours,” she replied genuinely as the proprietor, a woman said to be a descendant of Virdelan himself, greeted Issa.
“Ilyas,” I said stopping him, whispering a request into his ear.
With a nod, he left us to settle, as comfortably as was possible for a human and Thalassari deep in Gyorian territory.
25
ISSA
Gems of every color and size. Obsidian shards. Stonecap mushrooms. Gauntlets and daggers. I didn’t know where to look first, the Veiled Market unlike anything I’d seen before in my life. I’d had to quiet my senses, there was so much magic. It reminded me of when I had first learned how to harness my intuitive abilities and became easily overwhelmed, or when we’d used the Ascension in Aetheria and first entered the palace.
After securing a room at the inn—one room for us both, after a brief discussion that still made me blush thinking of it—and assurances from Marek he had already sent inquiries regarding Draven’s movements, we set out for the market. With naught to do but wait for word from Mev and Kael, and for Adren’s arrival, I attempted to shake off the guilt that plagued me. While I galivanted about the port with Marek, what was happening at Hawthorne? Had Lord Draven made a play to take command? I had no doubt Sir Warren could keep the Gyorian reivers at bay in my stead, but never would I have imagined Draven as a threat to Hawthorne Manor or its people.
“If you’d hadn’t joined us, we may not have learned of Draven’s duplicity,” Marek said beside me.
I hadn’t realized I’d stopped and was staring at what appeared to be a broken piece of black glass, its seller eyeing me warily.
“I thought the same,” I admitted.
Marek stepped toward the seller with a wink to me.
“May I?” he asked.
The seller, a gruff-looking Gyorian nearly as large as Kael, gestured for Marek to help himself. Picking up the black shard, he inspected it.
“A fine piece of obsidian.” He placed it back down. “And unfortunately, a fake.”
The ground suddenly rumbled beneath our feet. I hadn’t even seen the seller use his hands to make it happen, but watching closely, I noticed the seller’s fingers twisting at his sides.
“No need to get angry,” Marek said easily. “I’m trying to help you out. That piece is from Cretnor, aye?”
The ground stilled. The seller’s brows knitted together in confusion. “It is.”
Marek shook his head, as if sympathizing with him. “He sold me a fake bit of stonecap. If you see him, give him my regards.” Marek placed a fist to his heart.
The seller hesitated, and then returned the gesture. “He is a dead man.”
“Hmm, best of luck with that. Cretnor is a slippery one.”
We moved away from the table.
“How did you know it was fake?”
“The obsidian? I’ve seen a real one. Its edges are smoother, shinier. I also happen to know the dealer well. He’s been peddling fake ‘dark magic’ objects all over Elydor for years. Someday, it will catch up to him.”
We walked through the marketplace, which reminded me of an earthier, more dubious Valmyr Port. I asked about some of the items for sale, things I’d never seen before. Marek introduced me to at least two of the dealers, neither of whom seemed surprised to find a human in their midst. Along the border, near Hawthorne, such a thing would be unheard of. Marek laughed off my observation.
“The people of Grimharbor care little about the politics of their regions. The battles of their kings and queens have hardly affected them. They operate in the underbelly of society where survival is paramount, the squabbles of their leaders secondary to eating, drinking, and whoring, in that order. Apologies,” he said immediately. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“I may be innocent in some ways,” I said, cutting him off, “but have spent enough time with my own warriors to have heard much worse. No apologies are necessary with me.”
