All the Stars and Teeth(48)

Only when Blarthe makes his way behind the polished ivory bar do I force my attention away and steel myself. We step forward, taking three seats near the end.

Blarthe’s quick to eye us, and roughly slides over three mugs of ale. Some of the amber liquid and its froth spills out over the edge and falls onto my cape.

I bite my tongue. It’s going to be next to impossible to get the smell out of the fabric.

“It’s not often I get new faces,” he muses. “Where are you kids traveling from?” The words are spoken too loudly. Too brightly.

“We’re Valukans,” I answer, not missing a beat. “We’re on our way to Enuda, just passing through.” I eye the ale in front of me. It’ll be suspicious if I don’t drink it, but the smell that wafts from the mug is a peculiar one. It reminds me of a rotten apple—strangely sweet with a foul undercurrent. I take the pint in one hand and slowly lift it to press my lips to the glass. I fake the smallest swig.

When my face lifts, Blarthe’s eyes are all over me. There’s a scar through his left eyebrow, and another at the side of his lip, but aside from that his skin is flawless. Yet his sharp green eyes are too aged for the rest of his uncomfortably youthful appearance.

Magic pulses within me, warning of danger. I want to latch onto the pulsating, ravenous thrumming in my blood and keep it close. My fingers brush against my satchel, seeking its comfort but finding only nerves in its place.

There are too many people here. So many that, should something go wrong with my magic again, it’d be a bloodbath.

Never before has my magic been a source of anxiety. But for now I have to stuff it back down, nerves prickling at my skin. I only allow myself to reach for the harmless part of my magic—soul reading.

This is the first skill I learned, and by far the easiest. It’s gentle and peaceful where the rest of soul magic is vicious, and I don’t hesitate to wrap it around me like a second cloak and wait for my and Blarthe’s eyes to meet.

His soul is like algae. Slimy and sticky, as if constantly attempting to ensnare others. It’s rotted and peeling at the edges, similar to Aran’s, the prisoner I executed back in Arida. Though his face is smooth and inviting, I understand within seconds how dangerous and vicious a man he is.

The beast gnaws within me, wanting to devour this soul it senses me considering.

Annoyance stirs in my chest. At the execution, I lost my focus and paid the price. But the journey I’m on is to prove myself as the ruler Visidia deserves. And the queen of a kingdom should not fear her own magic—she should relish it.

So that’s exactly what I do. The mistakes I made in the past do not make me weak; instead, I’ll use them to become stronger. I’m done being afraid of my own power.

I swathe myself in the full strength of my magic. It flares like fire within my chest, searing my fingertips and easing the tension in my shoulders. I relax into it, because this time, I will not lose control.

Beside me, the boys are tense, but Blarthe’s focus eventually drops as he wipes out a crystal mug with a plush amethyst rag. Only when he relaxes does all of Vice seem to take a breath. Several men at the bar had been hanging on to his every word, likely more than just patrons.

Behind us, the ball of a roulette wheel clacks quietly. A woman playing it hisses at her loss.

“Why have you come here?” Though Blarthe keeps his voice low, its sharpness cuts me like a knife.

Bastian leans forward, fingers dancing along the mug but refusing to drink what’s inside. There’s a sword under his cape, and a dagger plus a satchel full of teeth and bones beneath mine. If we need to use them, the last thing we need is ale clouding our judgment.

“We’re looking for a mermaid,” Bastian says, wasting no time.

A crooked grin parts Blarthe’s lips. He chuckles, too dark and low for his body. “Every man is looking for a mermaid, mate. I don’t blame you.”

While Ferrick flushes, the comment isn’t enough to dissuade Bastian. “Three gold pieces for any information you have.” Bastian guides Blarthe’s curiosity toward his hand, where he produces a single gold coin from between two of his fingers. He rolls it into his palm, but the shopkeeper’s face remains impassive.

“You seek me out, needing my help, and yet you think it wise to insult me?” he asks, harsh eyes slicing into us. I flinch back, nerves feasting on my bones. “I don’t barter with something as simple as coin, kid.”

“I’m not asking you to hand her to me. I’m only asking for information.” Bastian rolls the coin between his fingers and up his sleeve.

“If I told you where a beached mermaid was, it’d be as good as giving her to you,” Blarthe says. “And there isn’t enough coin in the world to make that a worthwhile trade.”

Ferrick begins to push himself from the bar. “Perhaps we should look somewhere else,” he suggests, a nervous bite to his words.

Bastian ignores him, tensing his jaw. “How much do you want?”

“I already told you, I don’t barter with coin.” Blarthe sets down his mug, and the room snaps into silence as several of the patrons cling to his words. “I barter with time. Six years for information about mermaids.”

I lean back, noticing those playing roulette have now stilled. At the card tables, all heads turn to face us. It’s clear these are no ordinary patrons; they hang on Blarthe’s words, waiting for his command.