Bors was certainly no knight. He and his party laughed and shouted like men looking for a fight. Other locals kept their noses in their drinks. The Raven Wing was growing fuller. The sun flared through the window over the western gate. A bard was tuning his rebec as Pym’s voice reached an anxious pitch.
“. . . by nightfall! Hello? Nimue? Your mother will tan our hides!”
“Then no point carrying on about it.” Another local lost at bone dice to Bors. He handed over a pouch of coins as the “knights” jeered at him.
“Nimue, do you hear me? The woods aren’t safe at night, and we don’t have the coin to stay here. What are we going to do?”
“Don’t go just yet,” Arthur said, laying a gentle hand on Nimue’s arm.
“Arthur! What’re you hiding for?” Bors barked. “Bring those fine maids over to say hello!”
Arthur winced, caught himself, then fashioned a smile. He rose as the men at Bors’s table muttered and laughed.
Pym turned pleading eyes toward her, but Nimue finished her ale, wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and followed Arthur to the gaming table. This is what being out in the world is like, she told herself. An adventure around every corner. She imagined herself winning a sack of coins and buying herself a cushioned chair in a luxurious trader caravan headed to the southern seas. Or, more practically speaking, a few coins could buy her and Pym room and board and a chance to weigh her next steps. The ale gave her a swagger as she stepped up to the table behind Arthur.
“Gents—” Arthur started.
Bors interrupted. “Lads, Arthur’s found himself some lovely company.”
Nimue didn’t like the way the men laughed. She saw a table of Josses, a lot of empty heads and bluster.
“Come now, girls, part the robes, let’s see the goods.” Bors eyed Pym and Nimue like cattle.
“Carry on, boys,” Arthur said, starting to escort the girls away.
“I’ll have a go,” Nimue said, ignoring the laughter. Bors’s fat fingers counted coins on the table. The mercenary looked up at her.
“No. Bad idea,” Arthur warned.
“Nimue,” Pym hissed.
A wide grin broke over Bors’s stubbly cheeks. “But of course, my dear.” The other mercenaries guffawed loudly and whistled their approval.
“Does the lady have five silver?” Bors asked.
“I don’t, I’m afraid.”
“No matter, we allow different wagers.” He paused and looked her over. “How ’bout we roll for a kiss?”
Pym grabbed Nimue’s shoulder. “We were just leaving—”
Nimue pulled from her grasp. “Fine.” There was a new round of whoops from the men.
Arthur shook his head. Nimue turned back to Bors. “But if I win, I get ten silver.”
Bors chuckled. “That’s a deal.” He gathered the bone dice into his enormous hands. “Does the lady know how to play?”
“You pick a number?”
“Very close. All you need to do is roll a seven in any combination. Two and five. Three and four. Six and one. You see? The odds favor you, my sweet. It’s very easy. I’ve just had a dumb rush of luck.” Bors slid the dice across the table.
Nimue picked up the dice, felt them in her hand. They were weighted, of course. No fool would ever roll a seven with them. But Nimue was no fool. She rolled the dice on the table, and as they landed, she closed her eyes and reached out with her thoughts to the Hidden. She felt the tiniest hum in her belly and a slender thread of silver vine crept up her cheek, mostly concealed by the hood. The Hidden are answering, Nimue thought, pleased. Sometimes, in small doses, she could just barely guide the power.
But Pym saw the Fingers of Airimid, and her eyes widened with alarm.
The dice turned up three and four.
Bors stared at the bone dice. The sell-swords sat up. None of them spoke.
Bors looked up slowly at Nimue. “Roll them again.”
“Why? I won.”
Bors leaned forward and slid the dice to Nimue. “Best two out of three? Seems fair.”
“Those weren’t the rules,” Nimue said.
“Roll again, Nimue, and then let’s be off. Please,” Pym begged.
“Then it’s twenty silver if I win,” Nimue demanded.
Bors sat back, chair creaking under his weight. “Can you believe this little maid?” He shook his head and barked with laughter. “You want twenty silver? Then I’ll want my money’s worth as well.”
“Deal.”
Pym grabbed at Nimue’s arm. “Stop this.”
Nimue took the dice, shook them in her hand. Again, the Fingers of Airimid crawled up her neck and behind her ear. She threw the dice on the table. A six and a one. The sell-swords raised up their hands and roared in disbelief, falling silent when they saw the look in Bors’s eyes.
“Are you witching me?” he growled.
The Raven Wing was silent. Nimue felt many eyes upon her.
A distant voice in her mind said, Run, you fool. Nimue ignored it and smiled at Bors. “Why? Do you fear witches?” Her ears throbbed with the hum and the dam broke. The power spilled out of her and the wooden dice table blossomed with grotesque knobs and spikes and Bors’s chair grew branch-like limbs that wrapped around his throat and chest. Bors gurgled and pulled the table down on top of himself along with cups of ale and jugs of wine, and the sell-swords leaped to their feet, terrified.
“Fey witches!” one of the sell-swords yelled.
“Oi! That’s it! Off with you!” Pym and Nimue turned to see the barkeep pointing at them. “We don’t want your kind in here!”
“We’re sorry,” Pym managed. Nimue was in a daze. The magic had left her feeling weak, as if her bones were empty. She felt Pym pull her toward the door, and they bumped into the Red Paladin who had stolen the dagger. Nimue broke eye contact immediately, muttered, “I’m sorry, brother,” and hurried out.
For the first time that day, a wave of fear crashed over her.
FIVE
NIMUE AND PYM HURRIED DUSK lady through the closing city gates. Most of the vendors had returned to their farms hours earlier. Visitors to Hawksbridge after nightfall would have to announce themselves to the watch guard.
A fingernail of moon shone dully through the clouds. Only a mile out from the city gates, the solitary sound on the road was the slow clop of Dusk Lady’s hooves.
“Nimue, what was that? You know you can’t do magic in town! They’ll hang us for it!”
“I didn’t mean to. I just—I’m not feeling very well.” Nimue’s head throbbed. They’d eaten very little, only a few biscuits from the village, and the ale had made her dizzy.
“Why would you pick a fight with those . . . ?”
“They don’t scare me,” Nimue muttered, still feeling weak. The Red Paladins were a different story, though. Her anger from earlier had burnt itself out, leaving her with only a sick feeling, like she had been removed from her body and was merely watching herself behave so recklessly.
“Half the village is likely searching for us.” Pym was worried.
“I’m sorry, Pym. Try to sleep on me. I’ll get us home.”