Her hands shook, and she couldn’t get enough breath. A sorcerer was somewhere in the village. Maybe even here at the inn. And he had a sparkle stone with him.
She had to hide. If an animagus saw her, he would surely burn her. He would know, just by looking at her guilty face, that she had stabbed another animagus once, stabbed him so bad he died.
Mula half ran, half tripped down the steps, ignoring the spilled, dirt-encrusted turnips. She ducked beneath the stair and lodged herself in a tiny space behind a mead barrel. The girl pulled her knees to her chest and held herself in the tightest, smallest ball.
Her skin continued prickling. Her blood continued to sing, making her limbs twitch and her pulse race. She squeezed her eyes tight but couldn’t keep the tears from leaking out.
Hours later, the cook found her.
“There you are, you lazy half-breed,” he said. He had yellow teeth and foul breath, and arms so skinny a girl would never guess he spent so much time tasting food. He scooted the heavy mead barrel aside and grabbed her by the ear. “Out with you. Gather up the turnips and the meat, scrape off the dirt as best you can, and get yourself up to the kitchen. Do it quickly and I won’t tell Orlín you’ve been shirking.”
But the sorcerer was still nearby. She could feel it in her bones. “I . . . can’t.”
He backhanded her across the face, so hard she crashed against the mead barrel, bruising her spine. She struggled to her feet, put a hand to her stinging cheek.
“Disobey one more time and there’ll be a whipping in it for you, and nothing but bread crust for a week. Now get to work.”
She bent to retrieve the fallen basket. She grabbed a turnip, wiped it against her sleeve to clean it, and placed it inside.
Satisfied, the cook began to climb the stairs.
“Wait,” Mula called out in a trembling voice.
The cook turned.
“Is the bad man up there? Inside the inn?”
“Huh? Oh, you mean the White Hair?”
Mula nodded.
“He’s finishing up a bowl of stew. Might stay the night.”
The girl froze. Her ears were ringing now. Her face and neck filled with heat.
“Is that why you’re shirking? You’re afraid of the White Hair?”
“Y . . . yes.”
The cook gave her a sympathetic look. “Can’t say I blame you. I try to steer clear myself. Better get used to it, though, because war is coming, mark my words. And when the White Hairs march their Invierno army west to Joya d’Arena, we’re going to see plenty of them.”
Mula gaped at him. An army of monsters led by sorcerers. Something like that could burn down the whole world.
“You’re lucky, mule girl,” the cook said. “To live here in one of the free villages. We may not have nice roads or fancy castles, and sure, trying to farm these mountain slopes is like coaxing grain from a stone, but at least we’re left alone. Better to break your back bettering your own life than to die in some fancy lord’s war, hear?”
“Hear,” Mula whispered. She wasn’t lucky, no matter what the cook said. She had never been lucky.
“Anyway, get back to work. Come up quick with a full basket, and I’ll find work for you in the kitchen, out of sight.”
“Thank you!”
The cook disappeared up the stairs.
Mula worked fast, gathering turnips and meat strips, wiping them with her clothes, picking out the most stubborn flecks of dirt. Her basket was only half-full when the cook returned. His eyes were wide, and he was breathless.
“Come now,” he said gesturing.
The girl couldn’t move. Fear rooted her to the earthen floor.
“Now!” he practically shouted. “Leave the basket. Orlín wants you right away.”
Mula forced her feet to tackle the stair steps, though it seemed like an invisible force was dragging her back into the cool safety of the cellar. No, no, not up there.
“Hurry!” the cook said, and when she was near enough, he grabbed her arm and yanked her the remaining distance.
He held her fast before the hearth, which was bright with long flames. “You’re filthy,” he said, and he smacked at the dust on her pants and wiped a spot on her cheek with a rag. “That will have to do. Now come.”
His grip on her upper arm was iron strong as he dragged her from the kitchen, into the busy common room.
Dining tables were scattered throughout, some long with benches, a few round with stools, all stained from ale and spilled stew. A stone fireplace climbed the wall at one end, with fresh-cut pinewood stacked beside it. Rushes covered the floor, sour with ale and urine, and a single window looked out over the snowy rooftops of the village.
At the long table nearest the hearth sat a group of monster people, and even their thick woolen coats and fur stoles could not disguise their tall slenderness. Their hair was a riot of color—one had black hair, just like a Joyan, another the bright copper of a late sunset, still another had hair of polished chestnut.
The sorcerer sat at the head of the table, slightly apart from the others. His eyes were the deep blue of a high mountain lake. His cloud-white hair was pulled back into a long braid that wrapped around his neck and dangled down his chest. Mula didn’t see an amulet there. Maybe it was hidden beneath his fur stole.
Then she saw the staff leaning against the table beside him, made of twisted oak. Embedded in the very top, gripped by sculpted wooden claws, was a bright blue sparkle stone. The girl loosed a single, sharp sob.
Orlín the innkeeper approached, wiping his hands on a rag. His nearly bald head shimmered with sweat. “There you are,” he said. “Come with me.”
The cook returned to the kitchen as the girl was yanked forward by the innkeeper, toward the sorcerer.
“No,” Mula said. “Please! I don’t want to go over there. I’ll do anything. I’ll clean chamber pots for a month. I’ll boil all the sheets. I’ll—”
“You’ll do whatever I tell you, Mula. I own you.”
They stopped before the table, and the sorcerer looked up from his bowl of stew. The tingling inside her was ferocious now. She hadn’t eaten all day, but maybe she would vomit anyway.
“Thisss is the bleeder?” asked the sorcerer. She hated the way monster people hissed when they spoke the Lengua Plebeya. Like snakes hiding in the grass.
“Yes, my lord,” said Orlín.
“She is a mula.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Have you bled her before?”
Orlín hesitated. He settled on the truth. “No, my lord. This will be her first time.”
The sorcerer grunted. “I guess we’ll sssee. Come here, mule girl.”
The innkeeper shoved her forward. The sorcerer reached out with his long spider fingers and touched her cheek. His fingers were warm and dry. Bile rose in her throat.
“Sso young,” he murmured. He turned to one of his companions. “Needle,” he commanded.
His copper-haired companion rummaged around in a pack for a moment, retrieved a leather fold with ties, and set it on the table. He untied it, flipped it open, revealing sewing supplies—needles, thread, a thimble. He pulled out the very largest needle and handed it to the sorcerer, who took it gingerly.
“Give me your finger,” the sorcerer said.