Page 8 of Where Darkness Dwells

The enticing scent of fresh bread pulls me in. Orlagh’s baked goods are legendary in Utsanek. Along with several dozen golden-crusted loaves, her stall is laden with spiced fruit-filled rolls, herbaceous flatbreads, and buttery biscuits. How the woman manages to accomplish all this every day with no one to help her, I’ll never quite fathom. She is a true artisan. My father constructed an impressive stone oven for her several years ago, to her very exacting specifications. At least three times the size of most people’s ovens, it takes up nearly half of her tiny apartment.

Fanning herself with a cutting board, Orlagh deposits the basket on the counter and heaves herself onto a wooden stool behind her booth.

“Mercy, what a ruckus. I shouldn’a let myself get so hot and bothered. I’m too old for such nonsense.” She squints at the many-hued eggs and nods approvingly. “Oh, Amyrah—what a lovely bunch of eggs yeh brought me today.”

“The hens are just happy the season of sowing is here,” I say with a shrug.

Orlagh clucks her tongue. “Plenty of chickens wouldn’t give half so beautiful eggs. It’s yer tender care that really makes ’em thrive.” She pats my cheek, and I don’t mind.

She is the closest thing to a mother that I have. Despite her long hours baking bread for her patrons, Orlagh has never missed an opportunity to help me out. She taught me to mend my own garments when I was only five years old. She ensured I knew the basics of making a satisfying stew, no matter the ingredients, by the time I was ten. And, I blush to recall, she helped me transition into womanhood when the time came upon me. No matter what new challenge life demanded of me, she has always been my confidant.

“But child,” Orlagh says, growing serious and leaning in so only I can hear, “yeh shouldn’a come to the city. Not today. Not with the first Sola Vinari in thirteen years.”

I study her dim, stone-gray eyes, surprised to see an uncharacteristic fear lurking within them. Again, the guilt-chill washes over me for having rebelled against my father’s instruction. Maybe there is something to his behavior, after all.

But it isn’t right for him to keep me in the dark,I argue with myself, failing to ease the sickening remorse gathering in the pit of my stomach.

“Orlagh, please.” I clutch the knitted wrap draped around the woman’s bony shoulders. “Please, tell me why. What’s so dangerous about this Hunt? And why has my father never spoken of it?”

She watches me silently for a moment, an internal battle playing itself out over her countenance. Finally, she sighs. “It’s not the Hunt itself yeh need to be wary of. It’s the repercussions of the last one.”

A shiver runs down my arms, circling my wrists and making my fingertips tingle. “Did it have something to do with my mother?” My voice is hardly audible amid the surging clamor of the valefolk.

The old woman nods slowly. A vacant look claims her eyes, as if a vision of the past plays out before them. “Aye. Poor Ellehra. She was a light snuffed out too soon.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight.

“And—and was it them, the hunters, who ...tookher?” I ask, fearing the answer.

Orlagh shakes her head and scowls. “No, not the hunters. They had nothin’ to do with it. But your father was the one that found her.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and tears slip off my lashes, cool against my hot cheeks.

“Yer mother was the most strong-minded lass in all the Vale, and she let everyone know what she thought about Sola Vinari. She was the only person I’ve known with the courage to challenge it, though heaven knows I’ve had a mind to do the same over the years.”

“What were her reasons?” My brows hitch together as I wipe away the wet trails of tears with the back of a hand.

“She insisted the solas were no’ the problem in the Vale. Caused quite a stir in the city, she did. Yeh see, for ages past, we’ve been accustomed to huntin’ those ethereal creatures, tellin’ ourselves it’ll keep us safe from the kaligorven and bring light to our city in exchange, and that one sola’s life was worth the peace and protection we received from the Shrouded in return. It made folks uncomfortable, thinkin’ all this time we’ve been in the wrong. But her words had a ring o’ truth to ’em, and a few good souls were swayed to see it her way.”

The leaden feeling plummets deeper within me. “What happened?”

A customer prevents her from responding—a tall man with dark hair and broad shoulders. Irritated, I pretend to be too deeply engrossed by the bread rolls to notice him, hurriedly wiping my face clear of tears.

“And do yeh intend to pay for that, or squeeze the life out of it?” Orlagh asks.

I glance at the intruder, bread in his hands. A guilty smile cracks his lips as he secures his lantern to a strap at his waist and fishes the silver coins out of his pocket. He barely manages to pay for a loaf when someone barrels into him, laughing and spewing nonsense.

“Watch it, Flip.” The man chuckles. “You’re going to take someone out.”

“Bel, you’re missin’ all the fun,” the assailant slurs, sloshing a cask filled with an unidentified liquid in the air. “The games are just gettin’ started.”

“Whatever you’re drinking, I think you should dump it.” The man—Bel, was it?—attempts to turn him toward the heart of the crowd with one hand while protecting the bread clutched in the other. But the belligerent Flip interprets the help as an insult. Lurching away from his friend’s reach, he loses his footing and knocks me over, whooping hysterically. I grimace, grit stinging my palms as they take the impact of my weight against the cobbled ground.

When I fling my disheveled hair out of my face, a hand extends to me. I look up and see it belongs to Bel. He’s younger than I thought. His face, which had shown amusement, is now full of concern. He bends lower, searching my eyes with dark irises that glow golden in the warm ignati light. His jaw is angular, and a ring of polished metal threads through his left nostril. A clump of auburn hair flops over his forehead while he waits. He does not appear the least bit inebriated.

My cheeks flush under his gaze, and amusement toys with the corners of his mouth. I don’t want his help, but I also don’t want to be rude. When my fingers find his hand, his warm grasp swallows them. He pulls me to my feet with one easy motion. I withdraw my hand sharply, his scratchy calluses grating against my palm. A quick smile of thanks is all I can muster. My squirming insides confirm how handsome he is.

His lips part like he wants to say something, but a second onslaught from his intoxicated friend spares me that mortification. Ushering the drunkard away requires all his attention, but right before they disappear into the crowd, he throws me a suggestive wink. Certain I am as red as enatuberries, I busy myself with brushing off my clothes.

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