Soren’s eyebrow lifts sharply as though this is news to him.
“How do we find them a leader?”
“Maybe you already have.” Nadya’s smile is faint yet serene.
Soren gazes out into the violet light of evening.
“How do we break a curse?” I ask.
“The king’s curse?” she asks. “Depends on which one, but typically it’s the source of grim mage magic and you’ll need a mage’s council.”
“Do you know any mages?” I ask as though I’m wondering where I can find the best slice of pizza in town. My stomach pinches with hunger.
“While in the Morgorthian Mountains you’ll want to seek Vespertine,” Nadya says. “He can provide answers and aid. There is much for you to learn.”
“Say that again?” I ask slowly as cold, cloudy memory filters back.
“Vespertine,” Nadya repeats.
I swallow heavily. “I thought my mother said to seek the silver king, but I think she said that name. I’d never heard it before and was kind of in shock. Silver King. Vespertine,” I repeat.
“The names sound similar,” Soren says, stepping outside.
I cat my attention between Soren’s retreating figure and the urgency in Nadya’s eyes, hardly able to trace what she’s saying for the fluttering in my chest as if I’m desperate to go now, take flight...or go home to the sanctuary of my room in New York with posters, a few stuffed animals leftover from when I was little, and my assortment of fluffy pillows scattered on my bed.
As the hour lengthens and the tide shifts, there isn’t time to ask her to explain. I rush into the night and after Soren.
Chapter 11
Ineke
The lane bustles with activity despite it being what Soren called the demon’s hour. Candles glow and children carry what look like Fourth of July sparklers.
Men and women alike haul wood toward the Docks and harbor.
“I thought it was almost demon hour when everyone hurries back home?” I ask. Nightfall never kept New Yorkers inside despite the demons. Then again, we have demon slayers.
Soren points to a cart. “Since it’s Hallowtide, they get a dukh for each load of wood, and you notice all the light—the fire.”
“A dukh? Like quack, quack,” I ask, imitating the animal.
Soren chuckles. “Money, coins. Long ago, they used to actually trade ducks—the bird.”
“And what happens with the wood?” I ask.
“They build the fire high so it burns late into the night, keeping away the demons, mostly. Also, anyone on distant shores will fear our fiery harbor. What they don’t realize is that the people who already live here have the most to fear. What’s more, they keep the embers for the ashpit,” Soren says in a flat voice. “But it does provide a distraction…”
I smile. “Wait. You’ll help me get the tapestry?” When he doesn’t confirm or deny, I say, “Do you think we can do it?”
He exhales. “If we fail, I don’t suppose the patrol will object to tossing us on the bonfires.”
“Reason enough to succeed.”
When the bells toll, unlike last night, people parade away from their homes and toward the harbor, sweeping us into their midst. Their cheeks smudge gray with ash.
Soren catches me staring. “Long ago it was to honor the spirits of the dead. Now it’s fear. They paint their faces with ash to keep hidden from the demons. The guards will be on patrol, but even they use tonight as an excuse to be generous with the drink.”
“Stijl?” I ask.
“The patrol isn’t allowed to drink stijl, but they more than make up for it with cider,” he says with a glint in his eyes. “Perhaps I can play for a bottle to barter—” Soren wears what can only be described as a scheming expression.
We sweep back toward the Flats. I hardly keep up with him or the mounting questions.
Soren stalks along the street as people filter in the opposite direction until he stops in front of a dark green door. He knocks once, twice, once, and then four times, steady and sharp. The knock returns from the other side. He knocks four times, then once, twice, and then once again. The door opens.
“Room for another player?” he asks a man nearly as tall as him.
They clap each other on the shoulders and then embrace.
“Nice to see you, Grunk.”
“Thought you were done with this game?” says the doorman.
“It’s a night,” Soren says vaguely, ducking inside and gesturing I follow.
The large man looks me up and down. I’m pretty sure Hagrid and Madam Maxime had a baby. “Plus one at the table?” Grunk asks.
Soren shakes his head.
The two men fill the narrow hall as I follow. At a second door, there’s another combination of knocks. We enter a low, lantern-lit room, practically dug out of the earth. In the center men and women gather around a table, each of them tossing square white tiles into the middle in no discernable pattern. At least that I can tell.
They don’t pause amidst a chorus of greetings, a few scowls cast at Soren, and more than one wary look in my direction.
A bearded man wearing a cap shoots to standing and beams when he sees Soren. They hug and confer for a moment before Soren gestures me over with a tilt of his head.
“This is Trotter,” Soren says. “He’s the tabber here. How’s Francie?” he asks, interrupting himself as though he forgot his manners.
“As well as she can be, all things considered.”
“Give her my best,” Soren says warmly.
“Of course.” Trotter’s eyes light up and his whiskers twitch into a grin when he sees me. “And who’s this?”
I sense this
