Page 25 of Godsbane
“A woman from the village,” I start. “And she spoke nonsense.”
The audacity of him to demand such an answer from me. An answer that, if I’m being honest, I don’t have. She spoke of the gods, of fate and power and prophecy … but what did she really say? What did any of it mean?
“Are you going to give me your sword or not?” I ask incredulously.
With a solemn face, he unbuckles the sword-belt from his chest and places the sheathed blade in my hand.
“You spent the day in the village?”
I expected a scolding for venturing into a crowd of people who hate me without being properly armed. I don’t expect him to appear awestruck at generosity he surely deems uncharacteristic.
I secure the strap and buckle it between my breasts before mounting the horse. It’s only once I am fully seated and turning my horse to leave that I reply to him.
“Did you think I’d spend the day sitting on my ass?” I scoff, spurring the horse forward.
As I cross the stable threshold, he speaks. The words are barely audible, but I swear he groans as he utters his confession. “I’m trying not to think about your ass, princess.”
CHAPTER 10
Ibarely get an hour alone in the woods before the setting sun has me retreating back to the stables. It’s not nearly enough time to satiate my restless magic or dampen the strange feeling that still sears my soul.
I thought giving into the gnawing call of death might help, might temporarily calm whatever the stranger lit within me today. But even decaying an entire bush didn’t soothe it—the most I’ve ever allowed myself to indulge. A stiff drink is the only thing that might stand a chance at rounding out the sharp edges of power that still claw and scrape at my skin.
The tavern below the inn is packed with villagers all eager to make offerings to Bastin after a hard day working to clean up what the storm left in its wake. A foreign joy fills the room as the jaunty tune of a fiddle wafts from the open doorway. The musician stands precariously balanced atop a rickety, makeshift stage, two crates propped up in a corner with an empty ale mug placed at his feet to collect tips. Around the room, heads nod in time with the folksy tune, mugs of ales clank together in cheers, and a few daring couples even attempt to dance a gleeful jig amongst the spread of tables.
I scan the room, looking for the captain to return his sword, but it’s Mikel, the young man from last night, that catches my eye first. He enthusiastically waves me over to the busy bartop with a wide smile that exposes a grin that’s missing more than a few teeth.
“Can I get you something, my lady?” he asks sweetly.
I repress the shudder that instinctively rolls down my spine at his words. I can’t decide what I hate more, open disdain or over-eagerness to cater to my every whim. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice my discomfort or the impatient way that the other patrons around the bar try and fail to grab his attention.
“Whiskey, please.”
When Mikel bends to extract the bottle from under the counter, I spot Captain Murphy over his shoulder. Sitting alone at a small table near the staircase that runs up the back wall of the inn, the muscles in his chiseled jaw are so tense that I can sense the agitation rolling off him from where I stand.
“Better make it two.” I place a silver, well above what the whiskey is worth, on the counter and nod at Mikel. A silent command to take the overpayment without complaint.
He places two glasses on the counter, but instead of pouring the whiskey, he slides the entire bottle my way with a wink. Before I can object, he disappears into the kitchen through the swinging door.
It takes nearly an entire song to push past the shoulders of stumbling patrons, avoid the booted steps of dancers who swing haphazardly through the crowds, and dodge hoisted serving trays of tonight’s dinner special. When I finally reach the back wall, Murphy is surprisingly absent. Physically, his body is still sitting here, but his attention is locked onto something across the room.
I drop the heavy bottle on the wooden table, the tin cups clinking together before they knock against the glass. The chairscrapes loudly as the chorus of applause dies down, but whatever holds Murphy captive doesn’t release him. It’s only when I slide his well-made, but too-heavy-for-me sword across the table that he looks my way.
“Your sword, Captain. Unused.”
“Where have you been?” he barks out through gritted teeth.
I could tell him that I went for a ride, or a walk, or took a nap by a stream, but I don’t bother. Because it’s none of his business.
The stranger’s words, cryptic as they were, were meant for me. Whatever she knew about my power or my fate isn’t for Captain Murphy’s ears.
The burnt woodsy scent of cheap whiskey invades my nostrils as I uncork the bottle and begin to pour the caramel liquid. I slide a hammered cup his way before lifting my own to my lips and downing the dram in a single gulp. The fiery spirit floods my system instantly settling the power that sparks and pops in his presence.
“That is somehow even cheaper than I imagined,” I joke.
The captain’s focus is elsewhere again, the muscles in his jaw matching the white-knuckled fists that rest on the table. I pour another and drink it quickly to avoid the impatient silence growing between us.
I wait for a snarky remark but nothing comes. I expect something along the lines of ‘What would a princess know about cheap whiskey?’or even‘Can’t handle a cheap poison, princess?’But instead I get nothing.
