Page 18 of House of Gilded Nightmares

“We will play the role of husband and wife.” I scoff, but he raises a hand to forestall my objection. “It will raise the least amount of suspicion. No one will notice us if we act like two mere travelers.”

I want to argue with him further, but the more I argue, the longer I delay getting the supplies and the horse I need to make my escape. “Fine. But don’t expect me to show you any form of spousal affection,” I snap. “Because I won’t.”

Zyren smirks. “I wouldn’t dream of it, princess. Now, hold still while I glamour you.”

We’re still standing in the shadow of the abandoned building, and I feel a rush of magic pulse off of him. It’s strange to me how he calls it so easily, outside of a cathedral and a sanctioned ceremony. His magic feels so different from the magic the High Priest used back in the Amethyst Palace. It feels like the night sky when a storm approaches, the feeling of heat and tension and the smell of sky and earth mixed. I feel a tingle as the magic wraps around me, moving down my legs to my feet. A moment later, leather shoes appear on my feet. But only the appearance of them—I can still feel the grass beneath my toes.

“The less attention we draw to you, the better,” Zyren says.

He gazes at me a moment, then reaches out and pulls the hood of the cloak up over my hair. His finger accidentally grazes my cheek, and a spark moves between us. We both take a step back, and for some reason, my dream from the night before flashes through my mind. Zyren drops his gaze quickly.

“Keep the cloak up and pulled tightly around you.” He turns and strides into the town.

We pass several more seemingly abandoned buildings before we enter the active section of Yiltsa. It’s not exactly a thriving metropolis, but there are several shops in the town center and wooden carts of farmers and potters selling their wares. There’s a cobbler, a shop with clothing and other general supplies, and an inn with a connected tavern. A butcher shop and a blacksmith, also.

A short time later, I have a pair of tall riding boots, socks, a pair of pants, a pale green tunic, and a cloak so Zyren can reclaim his. I can’t exactly change in the street, so we slip into an alleyway and I pull the pants on under my gown and tuck it into them, then tug on the new socks and boots. After traipsing across the hard ground all day and squelching through the muddy streets of this town, I’m beyond relieved to have them.

Next, we go in search of a stable and find one a couple streets over, where Zyren negotiates the sale of two horses, a chestnut gelding and a small black mare for me. He tells the owner that we’ll return in the morning, leaving him a deposit. He is so stern and commanding in his presence that it would take a true idiot to swindle him. Part of me is disappointed to discover that we’re not heading out right away, but I have to admit I’m exhausted and could use a full night’s sleep.

The sun is sliding down the horizon when we finally head to the tavern. Three windows line the front of the building, letting out squares of warm golden light despite the mud splattered along the lower edges of them from wagons passing by on the street. I smell cooking meat before we even step inside, and once the door opens, many other scents, too. Sweat and charcoal and something reminiscent of bread, but not quite the same. The interior has walls of stone like the outside, with rough-hewn tables strewn about and a long bar on the far side. Lanterns hang from the ceiling, lit with a pale blue light. Magic, yet again used so casually here, for the most minor things.

It’s quite crowded, easily three dozen people within. There’s someone playing music in the corner, plucking the strings of some instrument I don’t recognize, the tune cheerful. Not many people look up when we enter, and the slightest bit of tension leaves Zyren’s posture. We take a seat near the windows, the table closest to the door.

I notice that the people in the room all seem quite ordinary, with no aura of magic like Zyren. “I grew up hearing tales of the fae,” I say softly. “But everyone here seems just like the people in Eldare.”

“That’s because most of them aren’t fae,” Zyren responds. “Not all who live in Valaron are fae. Most of the fae live to the east or the north, in one of the great houses.”

I open my mouth to question him further, but a barkeep comes by, a tall woman with disheveled red hair. “Ale and stew?”

Zyren nods and she strides off again, avoiding the wandering hand of a man from the table next to us as she passes by. Zyren’s eyes narrow. He’d noticed it, too. The man is swaying slightly in his chair, laughing a bit too loudly at his companion’s jokes and spilling ale from his cup every time he picks it up and places it back down. He’s clearly had too much to drink. I’ve never been in such a boisterous place before, and some part of me thrills in it.

My guardian clearly does not share my sentiment. Zyren glares out across the room, narrowing his eyes at any who draw near to our table, save for the barkeep when she brings back what we ordered. She casts him a look, eyes flickering uneasily, and her hands flutter to her hair in a nervous gesture after she sets down two bowls of stew and two mugs of ale and saunters off. Zyren’s expression does not improve when the drunkard at the table next to us makes another swipe at her. It’s so crowded in the tavern that this time she can’t quite squeeze away in time, and the man swats her backside with a plump hand.

“Eat quickly,” Zyren says in a low growl as if I’m somehow to blame for his foul mood.

I don’t have to be asked twice, as I’m starved after a full day of trekking through the mountains. I’m also very much hoping our room has a bath so I can clean the filth from the road off of me. The stew is so good it makes my mouth water, meat and potatoes and herbs in a rich, creamy sauce. I finish it quickly and then stare at the huge tankard of ale before me. Ale is yet another thing that has existed in the world beyond the palace walls, a world for people who are free to make their own choices.

Wrapping my fingers around the sturdy metal handle of the tankard, I lift it to my lips and take a long chug of the brown liquid within.

And almost spit the entire contents onto the table, and Zyren.

He eyes me with something bordering amusement as I sputter and choke it down, then wipe my mouth across my arm in a very unladylike manner. “Are you quite alright?”

“Fine,” I mutter, willing my cheeks not to blaze and failing incredibly. “I’ve just…”

“Just what?” He raises both brows.

I shove the tankard away from me. “Nothing. I just don’t like it.”

Zyren’s gaze continues to rove mine, and he leans back in his chair. “That’s not the first time you’ve had ale, is it?”

“Look who’s asking all the questions now.” I glare back at him.

“It is, isn’t it?” He shakes his head and chuckles. “You really have led a strange life.”

“I hardly think consuming ale is a measure of my life experience,” I growl.

Zyren opens his mouth to say something else, something snarky judging by the look on his face, but it’s at that moment our drunken table neighbor leans over, pinning his watery eyes on mine.

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