Selivia gave her a careful look. “Pendark and Vertigon are already friends, wouldn’t you say?”
Tamri kept her face impassive, recalling Khrillin’s words in Gramma Teall’s hut. He had said King Siv—Selivia’s brother—had deceived him. She rubbed at a cold spot on her neck. Khrillin wasn’t the type to forgive a slight, even from a supposed friend.
More houses were visible amongst the rows of grapevines now. Tamri wondered what it would be like to live so far from the salty sea air but also from the stench of the canals and the muddy streets. Perhaps Gramma Teall would like a cottage among the grapevines one day, if Tamri managed to collect enough information to buy their freedom.
She glanced at the princess, wondering what kind of information King Khrillin would consider useful. Selivia wasn’t anything like Tamri would have expected a young royal to be, especially one on her way to begin a political marriage. Come to think of it, shouldn’t she have a group of knights to escort her, or at least a bodyguard? It hadn’t seemed important when Mav was with them, but now they were alone with the fading light and the rustling wind. Threats could lurk among the vines or lie in wait around any bend. Yet the princess strode onward through the twilight without fear, chattering to a Pendarkan gutter urchin as if they were old friends.
Suddenly there was a thunderous cry, and a dragon barreled out of the sky in a streak of blue and white and thudded onto the road in front of them.
“Mother of a cullmoran,” Selivia muttered. “I was hoping we’d make it to the inn before he caught up.”
“Why—?”
“Princess!” Heath leapt off the back of his dragon and marched toward them. “What are you doing? Where’s Mav?”
“We’re almost to the Fork,” Selivia began. “I thought—”
“You thought you’d saunter down a dark road with this stranger? She could have assassinated you!”
Tamri blinked as Heath pointed an accusing finger at her. “I wouldn’t—”
“You can’t wander around on your own here.” Heath sounded almost panicked, as if he had expected to find the princess murdered on the road. “We’re not in Vertigon.”
“I know that.” Selivia drew herself up. “There’s no need to overreact.”
Heath’s face darkened, and his dragon took a careful step back as if sensing his mood.
“Do you remember what we spoke about last night?” he said in a strained voice. “You promised to be careful. I thought you’d have the good sense not to—”
“That is quite enough,” Selivia snapped. “You may escort me the rest of the way to town, Lord Samanar, but I will not hear another word of judgment about my good sense or what was said last night.”
Heath stiffened as if he’d been slapped. Then he executed a deep, painfully formal bow. “Please accept my humblest apologies, Your Highness.”
Shame flashed across Selivia’s face, as if she hadn’t meant to be quite so sharp. But then she jutted out her lip and marched down the road with her head held high. Heath spoke a few quiet words to his dragon then fell in beside her, his back arrow-straight, one hand on his fiery cudgel.
Tamri followed them toward Fork Town, not daring to speak. When powerful people were angry with each other in Pendark, innocent bystanders got killed. She wasn’t sure what Heath—Lord Samanar?—was so vexed about, and she wasn’t going to ask.
Heath’s dragon flew off the way Mav had gone as fast as it could. Tamri was sorry to lose the creature’s company. It could have served as a buffer against whatever was going on between the princess and the chief dragon rider.
As they walked along, Heath made a point of looking around often, seeking danger among the grapevines. Once, Selivia reached out as if to touch him on the shoulder or say something conciliatory. Then she muttered what sounded like “easier this way” and dropped her hand.
The pregnant silence heightened Tamri’s senses as if she were on a Watermight-stealing job. Every footstep was too loud. Every rustle of the nightbirds in the vines made her want to lash out in defense or crouch in the wheel ruts in the road. But her self-preservation instincts were honed toward actual violence not whatever was going on between these two. She might not know much of Vertigonians or royals, but their quarrel clearly wasn’t just about the safety of the road.
Tamri breathed a sigh of relief when the vineyards gave way to shops and townhouses and the murmur of voices interrupted the silence. The smell of horse manure, fermenting wine, and chimney smoke replaced the freshness of the countryside as they marched into Fork Town proper.
The bustling trading hub was crammed with inns and taverns and travelers. The highways branching from its center led to Pendark to the south, Soole to the southeast, and Trure and Vertigon to the north by way of Kurn Pass. The three main roads met in a circular intersection, the Fork, which gave the town its name.
At the center of the Fork was a brick platform scrawled with names and symbols, where travelers left their marks when passing through the fabled way station. A bizarre iron statue sat atop the platform. Melted spines and spirals protruded from its torso at odd angles, making it look like a candlewax man who’d tried to dance a jig in a cook fire.
Tamri slowed to look at the statue, and a passing carriage nearly ran her over. She leapt back, clutching her burlap sack to her body. More carriages careened around the intersection at a breakneck pace. Horses and pedestrians wove among them, all eager to get wherever they were going at day’s end. Dust clouds hovered like sea fog and settled on sweaty faces and travel-stained clothes.
Tamri’s companions didn’t see her almost getting flattened, too busy marching politely side by side, which saved her some embarrassment. She was supposed to be a city girl.
Heath held his cudgel in his fist now, as if more determined than ever to ensure Selivia’s safety after their argument. Tamri wondered if the Vertigonian princess was truly at risk in Fork Town. She couldn’t imagine it was any more dangerous than Pendark. She scanned the crowds for threats, picking out faces and outfits from all over the continent, but no one was paying undue attention to their trio.
Still not speaking, Heath and Selivia skirted the busy intersection and headed straight for a two-story inn called the Waterlord’s End. They entered a crowded common room smelling of cured meat and ale. The wooden floors and tables were reasonably clean, and the guests looked prosperous, like wine merchants, silk traders, or maybe even minor Waterworkers. A few looked up at the newcomers then returned their attention to their drinks.
A solicitous man in a spotless apron hurried forward to welcome the princess and inform her the usual rooms were waiting for her entourage.
“That sounds lovely,” Selivia said. “Has a letter arrived for me?”
“A letter?” The innkeeper brushed at his apron. “Not here, my lady. Not since your last visit.”
“Oh.” Selivia frowned and touched her coat pocket. “I was expecting . . . No matter.”
She thanked him absently and handed over a few coins. “Would you wait for the others, please, Tamri, and tell Fenn I’m in my usual room? She’ll get you set up with somewhere to sleep.”
“Oh, uh, sure.”
Heath coughed. “Princess, you can’t trust this stranger to—”