Well, almost everybody. The guard and his cohorts were scared shitless, having barely avoided slaughter.
With a near-audible pop, the tension drained out of the room and the guard turned on his heel to return to his seat.
Aryn, task completed, watched the players in the odd little scene.
As if fearing to attract her notice, the guard’s companions and other various miscreants hurried away from the fae female. Others remained standing, gathered near the minstrel. They didn’t quite surround her and none actually approached. But their awe and interest was visible. For some, it wasn’t just awe or interest, but outright worship.
Aryn wasn’t surprised. He doubted the minstrel was, not considering how far from her people’s lands. Zhalia, far from the Four Kingdoms, called the enchanted kingdom by the human races, was a superstitious land and had been for generations.
Magic and its practice wasn’t forbidden in the province, at least not anymore, but outside the larger cities, few used it openly and races inherently magical, like the elves, were nearly on the same level as angels—or, depending on who you asked, demons—and only a mere step below Nominu, or the Nameless One, among some peoples, the deified, sacrificed God recognized in this part of the world.
As she returned to the corner where she’d been playing for much of the night, Aryn watched as she tugged her hood back up. Her hand hovered over her chest but she didn’t rub the area where the guard had shoved her. She might be stronger than two or three average humans, but he suspected the guard’s attempt to knock her back had hurt.
The moment lasted barely a heartbeat before she lowered her hand and her facial muscles didn’t change. That, too, was unsurprising. He’d seen no sign she had any companion and it didn’t take more than a few days or weeks of lone travel in this world to figure out that it was best to never show if a hint of weakness.
She bypassed the low stool where she’d sat to play, closer to him now. Unable to hold back the curiosity now, he spoke. “Interesting reaction there. Does that happen everywhere you go?”
Chapter 2
Tyriel was irritated now—and tired.
Also, very hungry. She’d planned on staying at this inn for a few days, but likely needed to reconsider that decision. Not in the mood to play word games, or any much of anything, she looked toward the speaker and found herself staring into a pair of blue eyes—very beautiful blue eyes.
The shadows cast by his hood would make it hard for a human to notice that fact. But elves weren’t human. According to her father, a fae lord who had lived for more than two thousand years before he fell in love with Tyriel’s Wildling mother, both of them had often debated about whether Wildlings were, in fact, still human themselves.
Wildlings had lived for millennia in areas where the wild magic had flowed freely, refusing to flee to human villages and cities, hiding by tall stone walls with iron gates where they bedded down at night and prayed no magic creature would find their beds.
Wild magic had a…curious effect on people after a time. After generations of living in areas rife with wild magic, Tyriel wouldn’t be surprised to learn the Wildlings weren’t human anymore.
Like her deceased mother, she had her own suspicions on the subject, leaning toward the likelihood that the Wildlings had veered from simple humans to something more complex several centuries back.
Tyriel certainly wasn’t human.
Her vision had always been keen, keener than any she knew from either fae or Wildling lineage. She appreciated it yet again as she took in the blue irises, a nose that had been broken at least once, but set with rather admirable skill, and a mouth almost ridiculously pretty for a man.
Well, hello, lovely man.
His brows rose and she reminded herself—he asked a question, silly chit.
“It happens often enough that I’m used to it.” She considered that a moment before adding, “Mostly.”
“Used to grown men nearly piss themselves when they see you while others look at you as if they can’t decide if they want worship you or hide before you notice them? Used to them sighing in rapt devotion all over a smile from you?”
“All of that.” She winked at him. “The fae eat babies at breakfast, didn’t you know? Mere humans should know better than to anger us. That’s why they sigh—it’s not devotion. It’s relief.”
“Babies for breakfast.” He chuckled as he pushed his hood back. “All the elves I’ve ever known were vegetarian.”
Now able to see him completely, she had to wonder at some of her fae cousins who never left Eivisia, convinced they’d never find a lover or mate among the mortal races.
How wrong they were.
This man’s face could have been carved from alabaster—should be, forever captured by an artist’s hands so future generations could gaze upon the elegant perfection, the only imperfection that slight crook in his nose.
Just how did he know that little fact about the People?
“Are you going to give me away? Let them know how meek and cowardly we really are?”
“I didn’t say a thing about meek or cowardly.” Gesturing to the seat at his side, he said, “I’m impressed, though. Even as drunk as he was, I didn’t expect him to show much in the way of common sense. Zhalia’s not a bad province, all in all, but this particular town? You rarely seen a guard back down from anything short of a fair fight.”
“It wouldn’t have been fair. I could have taken down a man like him when I was barely old enough to pick up a sword.”
He grinned at her. “Well, there is that. I imagine you already noticed the other guards in here. It was still a risk, confronting him.”
“Hardly.” She sniffed. “Zhalians are notoriously superstitious—it will take generations for their distrust of the magickers in this world to fade, even though it was the People who aided them when they finally decided to overthrow their oppressive rule. They still believe that we lurk around in the shadow world, waiting for people to displease us so we can haul them away to harvest our mines for us.”
“I doubt you’d let anybody not of fae blood into your mines,” the swordsman said. “Not as protective as you lot are of your treasures. Speaking of which…”
He tossed something at her feet.
Tyriel heard the clink of coins and narrowed her eyes. “What’s this?”
“Your coin.” His eyes slid past hers before moving to the inn’s entrance.
Her sensitive ears caught the sound of movement, even above the normal noise—furtive and fast, somebody fleeing. Sighing, she scooped up the coin purse and glanced at the cap she’d put down to collect any money that might come her way while she played. “Pickpocket?”
“Aye. Can’t decide if he was stupid or bold as brass, stealing from you once he knew who you were.”
“Bit of both, most likely.” She opened the coin purse and transferred the funds from it into hers, then tossed the emptied bag to the swordsman. “If you haven’t eaten tonight, I’ll buy your meal to thank you for your trouble.”
“I’ve eaten. But I won’t say no to company as I finish my ale, since it seems you’re done playing.”