Forged by Magic (Falling for Fables, #1)(51)
“Leave? And go where?”
“Back up to Milford, and then Riverwold eventually. They’re lovely villages, too. And then after the Elding moves along, I can sail over to Oakwater for a while. It’s one of my favorite places in the Isles.”
“But Lilia…everyone in Wyndale adores both you and the Travelling Tavern. From what I can see, it’s an integral part of the Midsummer Games.”
“My presence is agitating him.”
“Fuck Gregor,” I said firmly. “I’m going to prove he was the one who ransacked this place and stole Rivelin’s tools. That means he broke the law, and he’s out of the competition. You don’t have to go anywhere.”
The sides of her lips turned up. “You mean that?”
“Absolutely.”
She nodded. “All right. If you’re going after him, I want to help.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Rivelin’s stare from where he was polishing the anvil. A little tremor quaked my heart when he smiled. I found myself smiling back.
B y the end of the day, we’d cleared out half the shop. Weariness had settled over me like a fog. My body was still healing from my swim in the lake, and I wanted nothing more than to take a bath and climb straight into bed for a long, long sleep. But the idea of getting revenge against Gregor rejuvenated me enough to keep me from nodding off while we waited for darkness to swallow the last remaining dregs of sunlight.
I sat on the roof sandwiched between Rivelin and Lilia, two silver-haired elves I hadn’t known two weeks ago but now felt like part of my crew. Together, we were going to resolve this Gregor issue, once and for all.
“You know you don’t need to do this, Lil,” Rivelin said, taking a swig of her infamous brew from a tankard etched in swirling elven designs. “Daella and I have this handled.”
Daella and I. My heart thumped a little faster at the sound of those words.
“You two are very capable,” the elf replied crisply. “However, you’re not invisible. You need someone to distract him while you’re rooting around his house. That someone obviously has to be me.”
“I don’t like it,” Rivelin replied.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be in and out quickly,” I said, gladly taking the offered tankard. The brew went down sharp but sweet. “She won’t have to talk to him for long.”
“I don’t want her talking to him at all. He’ll think he’s won her over and start harassing her again.”
“That’s true.” I frowned and turned to Lilia. “You’re certain you want to do this?”
She leaned in and clinked her tankard against mine. “It’s worth the risk.”
R ivelin and I lurked in the shadowy alley behind Gregor’s house. He lived on the eastern side of the village, where single-story timber homes were packed together in neat little rows. Vines crept up the back wall and twisted around a chimney that puffed smoke into the sky, even at this late hour.
He was still awake, and judging by the looks of things, he’d gotten started on the Fildur Trial.
I exchanged a silent glance with Rivelin, and I swore I could read his thoughts just by the spark in his eyes.
Let’s get the bastard.
We listened to the sounds of clanging and hammering, and then the boom of a fist on a distant door. That would be Lilia, interrupting Gregor’s work. She’d lure him away from his house long enough for us to get a good look around.
Their muffled voices filtered through the walls. A moment later, the sound began to fade as Lilia led Gregor to where she’d parked her tavern in the market square. There, at least half a dozen revellers still sat around the tables, trading tales and downing their ales. She might not get much help from them if they were that far into their spirits, but at least she wouldn’t have to be alone with Gregor in the dark.
“Come on.” Rivelin jammed his fingers beneath the window frame and hauled it open. A screech echoed into the night, but he didn’t slow down. He threw his legs over the ledge and eased inside the house. My heart thundered as I waited. A moment later, he reappeared at the window and motioned for me to join him.
Once inside, I glanced around. Gregor’s home was somehow simultaneously messy and sparse. In his one-room space, he had no more than a single cot squeezed into a corner, a small table and chairs, and a water basin beside a crackling fire. The orange glow illuminated a pile of familiar tools beside the hearth. Clothes and maps and empty bottles covered almost every inch of spare surface.
“Looks like we got our answer,” I said.
“So strange,” Rivelin said with a frown. “I thought this would feel far more satisfying. He’ll be out of the Games because he’s fool enough to leave my stolen tools scattered around his house? I always thought I’d have a real fight on my hands when it came time to defeat him. Preferably armed.”
“I understand how you feel. In Fafnir, support was growing for Isveig’s sister, Thuri. She’s a good person, and she’d turn the Grundstoff Empire around—if she survived the shipwreck. The emperor’s support is waning. And that’s a good thing. It’s just…I would rather see him go down with a sword through his heart.”
“Vicious,” Rivelin said, but there was no judgement in his tone. He moved to the tools and started collecting them from the floor.