“This rot? No. Not at all.”
I shove a larger piece in my mouth. After I chew what amounts to little more than sawdust, I say, “I’m also hoping the seer can explain curses and how to break them.”
He rolls his eyes. “Not likely.”
Once again, multiple seers reach for us with shiny bracelets dangling off their arms, their veils pulled low over their eyes as they offer a vision of the future.
“What were you were saying about Hallowtide?” I ask Soren.
“Everyone used to gather along the shoreline, sending candles into the water with prayers, in the hope that they’d reach the departed. Come to think of it, I suppose the practice started with the fae and the Sea of Dreams.”
I stop short. “Is the Sea of Dreams that way?” I point toward the harbor.
“No one knows where it really is or if it really is. But I like to imagine my mother there. It sounds like a peaceful place.”
“A cold place,” I mutter.
“Now the harbor is filled with bonfires to honor—” He glances at the castle at the same time the seer that we met before says, “I knew you’d be back.”
“Can we go inside?” I ask.
Soren throws a suspicious look over his shoulder at Fjallhold Castle.
“What can I help you with?” the seer asks as we enter her stall.
“We want to see your tapestries.”
“Many apologies, they’re not for sale.”
“We didn’t offer to buy them,” Soren says irritably. He pulls the table away from the wall near the secret exit, revealing the tapestry. Folding his arms across his chest, he leans back.
We survey the tear along the bottom of the tapestry.
“I see what was Fjallraven, the Docks, Battersea, the Flats, the Roost, the Basin, and Bearsden. Where’s the rest? The outerlands?” Soren asks.
“Why do you want to go to the outerlands?” The seer’s eyes narrow.
“I didn’t say I wanted to go there,” Soren says.
I interrupt and try to use my best manners. “I’m Kiki. What’s your name?” I ask.
“That’s not your true name,” the seer says matter of fact.
“My mother told me not to tell anyone.”
“Rightly so. At best, the knowledge of your true name brings you into a closer connection to your beloved, whoever you name sweetly. At worst, your true name makes you easier to trace, to control, and possess. By the way, I’m Nadya Zorgova Vlaga daughter of Ilana Tatimia Vlaga.”
“That sounds like your true name.”
“I’m not fae.”
“Well, we need the map. Is there more?” Soren interrupts.
She answers, “Bearsden.” Nadya’s tone betrays a secret but also contains what sounds like a twinge of regret.
Soren huffs and looks at the ceiling. “Of course it is.”
“Is that a bad thing?” I ask.
“It could only be worse if it was in the castle itself,” Soren answers.
“No, in this instance it would be worse if it were buried in Hargrave with the person who made it. I may be a mystic, but I’m also practical.” Her face is steely. “Long ago, I was in love with a bearman.” Her gaze flutters between us.
“Wicked War era?” Soren asks.
She nods. “We were going to run away together to a place where we could be free to love one another without the threat of death. My grandmother, one of the highest seers of the old kingdom, rested in the tomb at Hargrave,” she says. Lament is heavy in her voice. “The tapestry map was in her tomb so she would know where to go—to the sea, to the mountains, or remain, here with us.”
“You took it from her grave?” Soren asks.
“I left her jewels if you’re asking whether I’m a ruthless robber. But yes, I took it because I wanted to be free in this life before it was too late.”
Soren stiffens.
“But you’re not free,” I say gently.
“I’m not. Just before we were going to leave, my beloved,” she says sourly, “was offered a position among the King Torsuld’s guard. He wanted me to stay, to try to make it work. I didn’t want to so he took the other half of the tapestry and now, the tapestry forcing me to stay here. Now, it’s in Bearsden.” She closes her eyes.
“Have you ever tried getting it?”
She shakes her head. “It’s no use to me now.”
“How do you know it’s there?”
“I can see, Soren,” she says as though this should obvious.
“You can’t give up,” I say.
“Everyone in Raven’s Landing has given up.”
Nadya’s gaze floats over to the torn tapestry. She points at a massive bear’s head with bared teeth woven into the fabric. It depicts a building adjacent to the castle. “Bearsden. I visited Fjallraven with my grandmother when I was a child. I didn’t want to see the palatial rooms and treasures. No, I wanted to see the famed bearmen.” The seer tilts her head from side to side in memory.
Dismissing this Soren asks, “Do you know a way into Bearsden? I’m only familiar with the exits.”
“If only you could fly,” she singsongs.
Soren snorts.
“Yeah. Both of us,” I say.
A sneaky smile flits across Nadya’s face. She lifts her hands to the tapestry and closes her eyes. After a moment, she says, “You’ll want to follow the eastern wall. There’s an opening at the base just past the third levy. It’ll be low tide if you go soon. When you come out on the other side, you’ll have to scale the wall. Be watchful. Then take a right when you greet the bear statue. Pass three doors then go up the stairs. Two doors down, you’ll find the rest of my grandmother’s tapestry in the last room at the end of the hall rolled up inside a wooden wardrobe, hidden.”
“Will we? Are you sure?” Soren asks.
Nadya juts her chin. “If you take
