But after pacing for fifteen minutes, she pushed aside the furniture and left. Looking for a fight. For an adventure. For anything to take her mind off the bruises on her face and the punishment Arobynn had given her and the temptation to shirk her obligations and instead sail to a land far, far away.
Yrene lugged the last of the rubbish pails into the misty alley behind the White Pig, her back and arms aching. Today had been longer than most.
There hadn’t been a fight, thank the gods, but Yrene still couldn’t shake her nerves and that sense of something being off. But she was glad—so, so glad—there hadn’t been a brawl at the Pig. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the rest of the night mopping blood and vomit off the floor and hauling broken furniture into the alley. After she’d rung the last-call bell, the men had finished their drinks, grumbling and laughing, and dispersed with little to no harassment.
Unsurprisingly, Jessa had vanished with her sailor, and given that the alley was empty, Yrene could only assume the young woman had gone elsewhere with him. Leaving her, yet again, to clean up.
Yrene paused as she dumped the less-disgusting rubbish into a neat pile along the far wall. It wasn’t much: stale bread and stew that would be gone by morning, snatched up by the half-feral urchins roaming the streets.
What would her mother say if she knew what had become of her daughter?
Yrene had been only eleven when those soldiers burned her mother for her magic. For the first six and a half years after the horrors of that day, she’d lived with her mother’s cousin in another village in Fenharrow, pretending to be an absolutely ungifted distant relative. It wasn’t a hard disguise to maintain: her powers truly had vanished. But in those days fear had run rampant, and neighbor had turned on neighbor, often selling out anyone formerly blessed with the gods’ powers to whatever army legion was closest. Thankfully, no one had questioned Yrene’s small presence; and in those long years, no one looked her way as she helped the family farm struggle to return to normal in the wake of Adarlan’s forces.
But she’d wanted to be a healer—like her mother and grandmother. She’d started shadowing her mother as soon as she could talk, learning slowly, as all the traditional healers did. And those years on that farm, however peaceful (if tedious and dull), hadn’t been enough to make her forget eleven years of training, or the urge to follow in her mother’s footsteps. She hadn’t been close to her cousins, despite their charity, and neither party had really tried to bridge the gap caused by distance and fear and war. So no one objected when she took whatever money she’d saved up and walked off the farm a few months before her eighteenth birthday.
She’d set out for Antica, a city of learning on the southern continent—a realm untouched by Adarlan and war, where rumor claimed magic still existed. She’d traveled on foot from Fenharrow, across the mountains into Melisande, through Oakwald, eventually winding up at Innish—where rumor also claimed one could find a boat to the southern continent, to Antica. And it was precisely here that she’d run out of money.
It was why she’d taken the job at the Pig. First, it had just been temporary, to earn enough to afford the passage to Antica. But then she’d worried she wouldn’t have any money when she arrived, and then that she wouldn’t have any money to pay for her training at the Torre Cesme, the great academy of healers and physicians. So she’d stayed, and weeks had turned into months. Somehow the dream of sailing away, of attending the Torre, had been set aside. Especially as Nolan increased the rent on her room and the cost of her food and found ways to lower her salary. Especially as that healer’s stomach of hers allowed her to endure the indignities and darkness of this place.
Yrene sighed through her nose. So here she was. A barmaid in a backwater town with hardly two coppers to her name and no future in sight.
There was a crunch of boots on stone, and Yrene glared down the alley. If Nolan caught the urchins eating his food—however stale and disgusting—he’d blame her. He’d say he wasn’t a charity and take the cost out of her paycheck. He’d done it once before, and she’d had to hunt down the urchins and scold them, make them understand that they had to wait until the middle of the night to get the food she so carefully laid out.
“I told you to wait until it’s past—” she started, but paused as four figures stepped from the mist.
Men. The mercenaries from before.
Yrene was moving for the open doorway in a heartbeat, but they were fast—faster.
One blocked the door while another came up behind her, grabbing her tight and pulling her against his massive body. “Scream and I’ll slit your throat,” he whispered in her ear, his breath hot and reeking of ale. “Saw you making some hefty tips tonight, girl. Where are they?”
Yrene didn’t know what she would have done next: fought or cried or begged or actually tried to scream. But she didn’t have to decide.
The man farthest from them was yanked into the mist with a strangled cry.
The mercenary holding her whirled toward him, dragging Yrene along. There was a ruffle of clothing, then a thump. Then silence.
“Ven?” the man blocking the door called.
Nothing.
The third mercenary—standing between Yrene and the mist—drew his short sword. Yrene didn’t have time to cry out in surprise or warning as a dark figure slipped from the mist and grabbed him. Not in front, but from the side, as if they’d just appeared out of thin air.
The mercenary threw Yrene to the ground and drew the sword from across his back, a broad, wicked-looking blade. But his companion didn’t even shout. More silence.
“Come out, you bleedin’ coward,” the ringleader growled. “Face us like a proper man.”
A low, soft laugh.
Yrene’s blood went cold. Silba, protect her.
She knew that laugh—knew the cool, cultured voice that went with it.
“Just like how you proper men surrounded a defenseless girl in an alley?”
With that, the stranger stepped from the mist. She had two long daggers in her hands. And both blades were dark with dripping blood.
CHAPTER 3
Gods. Oh, gods.
Yrene’s breath came quickly as the girl stepped closer to the two remaining attackers. The first mercenary barked a laugh, but the one by the door was wide-eyed. Yrene carefully, so carefully, backed away.
“You killed my men?” the mercenary said, blade held aloft.
The young woman flipped one of her daggers into a new position. The kind of position that Yrene thought would easily allow the blade to go straight up through the ribs and into the heart. “Let’s just say your men got what was coming to them.”