Her eyes drifted over my face, landing on my bruised neck where Sawyn’s power had strangled me and my temple where it had cracked into the stone floor. She’d come to the wrong conclusions, but she wasn’t entirely incorrect. Grae’s father had given me plenty of reasons not to trust him.
“Follow the path.” She hooked her thumb behind her. “You’ll reach a wider trail with red markers. Ignore the white ones, those will lead you astray. Follow the red to Pinewood Valley. There’s an inn there called The Broken Fiddle.” She untied a bit of fletching from her arrow, passing the indigo feather to me. “Tell them Alice and Logan sent you, and they’ll give you a room for the night.”
I twirled the feather in my fingers, reaching into my pocket to grab another coin. Alice’s weathered hand covered my own, staying my movement.
“Take the clothes and keep your coin,” she said.
I furrowed my brow. “Why are you helping me?”
“Because no one did when I was you,” she murmured. “Just do me a favor? If it ever comes down to you or them. Make sure it’s them.”
I blinked at her. She spoke with an undercurrent of pain I felt as acutely as my own.
We stared at each other for one more moment—strangers, only sharing a handful of minutes together. And yet, I was certain I would never forget her face or her gruff sort of kindness.
“I promise.”
Thirteen
I changed into Alice’s clothes before joining the wider trail, shoving my leathers into my bag. I doubled back in the wrong direction to discard my silver sash, hoping it might throw the pack off my trail . . . but if they had followed me that far, they would surely search Pinewood Valley. I hoped the pack wouldn’t descend on Alice and Logan’s home, that I hadn’t inadvertently put them in the line of attack. It was an actual worry—no one got between a Wolf and their pack. But there was nothing to be done for it now.
Pinewood Valley was just as its name suggested—the little town nestled between two steep hills of evergreen trees. The long, narrow line of houses led up toward the Stormcrest foothills. With steep sloping roofs and houses perched on stilts, this town clearly weathered heavy snow in the winters. I squinted up toward the sun setting over the mountain peaks. When I reached the summits towering above, it would be winter still.
I paced down the trail into town, the wear of grueling winters evident even in the midst of summer. Wildflowers grew in a blanket down the lane, beautiful shades of reds and yellows, making the most of the brief summer months. The shadow of the mountain crept across the town as the evening sun fell from the sky. As I ventured into the shade, I felt that strange pull toward the snowy peaks and what lay beyond them. This was the closest I had ever been to my homeland. Beyond the snow-covered ranges of Taigos, Olmdere waited, a ghost kingdom for twenty long years.
A few townspeople stopped to give me a quick look before carrying on. In Alice’s dress and apron, I seemed like just another traveler passing through—probably a bar wench or laundry girl moving to the next town for work.
The Broken Fiddle sat at the end of the main road next to a battered stable and paddocks of burnt yellow grass. I entered, and my eyes strained to adjust in the dimness of the windowless room. It wasn’t the boisterous banter I expected from a tavern based on the stories Vellia told us. No roaring drunks sitting at the bar or clamorous music bouncing off the low ceilings. Rather, a few small groups gathered around tables, their hushed conversations stalling as they looked up at me.
“You looking for a meal or a room?” the barman called. He threw a towel over his shoulder and walked to the end of the bar.
I warily approached. A few patrons craned their necks to look at me. I felt all their leering stares, wishing I could evaporate into the air.
“Both, if possible.” I held out the indigo feather to him. “Alice said to give this to you.”
His eyebrows raised as he looked between me and the feather. He rubbed a hand over his bald head and said, “All right then.”
Simple as that. I looked at him, unsure of what to do. Is this how all humans treated each other? They wouldn’t be so kind if they knew I was a Wolf.
“What would you like to eat?” he asked, pocketing the feather.
“Um . . .” What did Vellia always say the taverns served? “Do you have stew?”
The barman chuckled, pointing to the board behind him. “The menu’s up there.”
My cheeks burned as I glanced up at the chalkboard. The tavern in Allesdale only served one thing, and if you didn’t want it, you didn’t eat. I was woefully underprepared for this journey. How was I going to defeat a sorceress when I couldn’t even order food?