"We feast and make merry for Yonna. Blessed folk hero. Child of a child of a god. Savior of the harvest." — from Folk Heroes and Other Children of the Saints

~~~

The next morning, Briar swung her legs out of bed and stared dully at the dirty mirror hanging on the wall. It was the first mirror she'd seen since the morning she left the castle, and she avoided it when she came into the room last night. She didn't want to see how the curse had changed her. How it had carved itself into the lines of her face. Rutted itself into the fabric of her, leaving her a faded husk of what she was. If she looked anything like how she felt— sore, empty, bleak— then she knew she wouldn't like what she saw.

And to add insult to injury, her long hair was gone. She didn't even have that to hide behind.

Rook said I'm still beautiful.

The memory made her spine shiver. Her lips pulled in a soft smile. He was the last man in the world who would give a compliment when he didn't mean it. Maybe it was true.

Getting to her feet, body stiff and aching, she approached the glass and peered in.

The angles of her face were sharper, her complexion paler, her tired eyes smudged underneath with bluish gray. Her skin was streaked with weeks of dirt. Her short hair, greasy at the roots and stained with blood, would have made her look younger if not for her haunted demeanor. She had an edge about her now. Desperate. Wild. Almost feral. This was a woman who had been through several hells and back. Who had suddenly been forced to become strong.

Briar was startled by her new appearance, but she didn't hate it. She was beautiful, but in a different way than before. This beauty had nothing to do with the length of her hair or the softness of her complexion. It was grittiness. The thorniness of a bruised rose.

The beauty of a cursed saint.

She splashed cold water on her face, then combed her damp fingers through her hair and braided it as best she could. Then she pulled on her new wool tunic, gathered her things, and went downstairs to join Rook.

When she saw him sitting with his coffee, snippets of the dream she had that night came back to her in a rush. Sitting on her father's throne— her throne— the weight of the Olorian crown pressing into her brow, her body practically dripping in topaz. Rook stood behind her, his calloused hand resting intimately between her shoulder and the curve of her collar bone. He wore fine clothes but still had his sword strapped to his back. She saw them, riding out together, sometimes leading their monster battalion and sometimes hunting alone. The times they were alone, they made love by the fire at night. Every fevered kiss he gave her bare skin was a prayer. A plea. A litany of adoration.

Horrified, Briar walked to the table with her chin tucked, afraid Rook could read her mind somehow.

Saint Orla needs to get a grip, she thought.

Rook's dark gaze felt especially pointed, like he was seeing through her. "Everything alright?" he asked.

Briar occupied herself with stirring sugar into her coffee. "Yes. Of course. Why?"

"Your face is red."

"Oh." She felt her blush deepen until her cheeks were like flames. "I don't know. The fire is warm."

Rook glanced at the sputtering fire. "I was just thinking it's cold in here."

Briar only shrugged.

~~~

They kept to the back roads on their way to Alysgard, in case Rand and his followers were traveling the main road.

"Rumors of you have probably reached the Amity by now," Rook said once they spotted the spiked walls of the city rising high over the wavering birch trees.

"Imagine their surprise to find that their long awaited saint of light is also a werewolf," Briar said with a bland laugh.

It felt like a lifetime ago since she'd purchased that simple icon of herself from the acolyte Brigid. Her opinion of the Amity had changed so much since that day, her hopeful curiosity now replaced with a burning resentment after what she discovered at the monastery.

Briar retrieved the icon from her pouch and turned it over in her hand. She considered tossing it into the brambles on the side of the road. It was useless, after all. A trinket crafted by wolves hiding behind white costumes and false piousness. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. The tiny thing had become a symbol to her of who she was, the smoothed out edges from her worried supplication a reminder of how far she'd already come.

She slipped it back into her pouch.

It felt strange riding into Alysgard by Rook's side. In Stonefarrow and Threldale people had noticed him, but here it was on another level. He drew many eyes, garnering nods of respect from men and desperate stares from women. She had to admit, she felt some pride to be seen with him, to be the object of envy. She kept her hood up and her head down, though. Last time she was here she'd stumbled upon her own brother. Now that Leith was king, she doubted he would still be frequenting the taverns, but she didn't want to take any chances. The castle staff often spent their days off in Alysgard, so she would need to be on the watch for them, too.

The town looked different than last time she was here with folk making ready for Yonna's Feast. It was Oloria's biggest festival, always celebrated at the end of autumn to pay homage to the folk hero of yore who saved the country from famine by multiplying the harvest of their fields. For thousands of years, it had been custom to gather and feast in her honor while dressed in costumes, as well as decorate the towns. Pumpkins and gourds had been placed all around the town as ornaments. Wreaths of corn husks, wheat, dried flowers, and rose hips were hung on every door. Legend told that Yonna wandered in search of succor on her feast day, and the wreaths were signs to her that she was welcome to enter.

People walked with purpose through the market, hoods pulled up against the blowing cold, their baskets filled with feast day preparations like dried cranberries, sprigs of thyme and rosemary, fresh bread, and butchered hens or pheasants for roasting. Some already wore their costumes and masks though the feast was still a few days away.

Briar and Rook hitched their horses at the tavern Sage & Anvil. Rook stayed here so much while he was in Alysgard that he had his own permanent room.

"Orvyn, the merchant who owes me a favor, is probably here," Rook said. "He usually is."

Briar noticed a thick line of salt marking the stoop. "Is that... warding salts?"

"Looks like it. Trying to keep werewolves away after the coronation I bet." He gave her a knowing look and leaned down so his mouth was near her ear. Her stomach fluttered. "Warding salts don't work against werewolves."

He stepped over the salt easily. Briar did the same.

They entered the tavern to roars of laughter and boisterous singing. A man in a grizzly bear mask stood on a table leading the drinking ballad. Briar grinned as she squeezed through the crowd, noticing the festive leaf garlands strung across the ceiling.

At the counter, a woman with a bored expression leaned on her elbow, the side of her head tilted into her hand. Rune tattoos covered her bare arms and one side of her face, showing she was from Vlaskafell. Her red hair was pulled into a tight braid that ran from the top of her hairline down to her waist, tied with a loop of leather.

"Well, if it isn't Oloria's hunter, returned home already," she said. Her charcoal rimmed eyes flicked to Briar. "And you brought a friend for once."

"Evening, Yska," Rook said, placing his gloved hands on the counter. "This is Bree."

Yska inclined her head, her eyes sparking with interest. Was the interest because Rook finally had a lady with him? Or did the woman recognize her? Briar reassured herself it was probably the first.

"Bartholomew left you to man the place, did he?" Rook asked.

Yska pushed off the counter. "The bastard was getting on my nerves so I told him to leave."

"You're the only hired help who has ever told him what to do."

"That's why I'm still here," Yska said with a shrug. "He's too frightened of me to let me go." She paused. "The town's gone werewolf crazed since you left."

Briar held her breath.

"That so?" Rook said with vague interest, his brows raising only slightly.

She nodded. "Everyone suspects everyone of being a werewolf. Some folks are real frightened. Last new moon, everyone barred their doors. The streets were dead. Only a handful of people showed up here, and it was the end of the work week."

"Just because the princess turned out to be a werewolf doesn't mean werewolves are crouching in every corner," Rook said, glancing at the crowds.

"I know that. But I seem to be the only sane one in town. Even the Amity are acting squirrelly. Walking around with holy water and sprinkling it on everyone. Say they want to cleanse the town." She gave a big roll of her eyes. "I can't stand them."

"You and me both," Rook said. "Everyone will calm down before long."

If Yska's words made him nervous, he didn't let on about it. Briar wished she could be stoic on demand as he could. Her stomach had turned to knots and her hands were clammy. 

"They'll probably calm down now that you're back. You always seem to have that effect on the town."

"Just here for a few days," Rook said. "Need an extra room."

Yska shook her head. "Don't have any left with all the travelers here for the feast. Your room is ready, of course, but that's the only empty one."

Briar and Rook exchanged a glance. She blinked up at him, surprised, blood suddenly hammering in her throat. It wasn't as if they hadn't spent the night together before. They had at his cabin, and at the monastery, and the other night by the fire. But there was something different about a room with a door. His cabin had a door, of course, but that was a lifetime ago and there was something different about it now. After all they'd been through. Their shifting opinions of each other. Their mutual understanding.

Not to mention after her dream last night.

Rook raised a brow in question. His expression was unreadable, but the pulse in his neck pounded.

Swallowing hard, Briar nodded.

Yska studied them with an amused look as she handed Rook a key. Briar didn't hear what else was said. All she could hear was the blood in her ears and then Rook was leading her through the crowds.

People noticed Rook and began greeting him loudly. Many petitioned him about werewolves, swearing they saw the beasts in the woods or on the outskirts of town, each person talking over each other. Some spoke of other monster sightings. Jobs they wanted to pay Rook coin for. Briar noticed they all hung back from him, though. They didn't smother him or touch him. Eyes full of admiration, they kept their distance. He had their full respect.

When it became too much, Rook addressed the tavern in a raised voice. "I'm on business, so I won't have time to take on any jobs. Be assured the werewolves are no more a threat now than before. I want to eat dinner in peace."

The people nodded and quieted before turning back to their conversations and card games. In a moment the place became loud again.

"There he is," Rook said, pointing. "Orvyn."

A man in his mid years sat with his elbows on the table, ripping off pieces of bread and dipping them in wine. He wore a marigold tunic and a matching cap that looked like a deflated mushroom. His thick graying hair was cut in an even line at his chin.

Almost the same haircut as me, Briar thought with a wince.

Rook sat across from him and the merchant looked up startled, mouth full of soggy bread.

"Master Rook," he said after he swallowed. "I am honored that you would deign to sit with me."

Rook looked at the others sitting at the long table and made a sweeping motion with his hand. "Could we have the table for a moment?"

With quick nods, everyone else got up, leaving them alone at the long table with Orvyn.

"Am I in some sort of trouble?" Orvyn asked. "Who is she?"

"Bree," Rook said. "A friend of mine."

Briar smiled. "Hello."

"Hello," the merchant returned, eyes pulling back to Rook warily. "What is this about, Rook?"

Rook set his hands on the table. "Time for me to cash in the favor you owe me."

Orvyn sighed heavily, but nodded. "Alright. It's been long overdue. What'll it be? I beg you not to make me do any fighting or long journeys on foot. Please. I mean, look at me. I don't have the physique for it like you do..." He patted his swollen gut with a bemoaning look. "I wouldn't stand a chance."

"Not to worry," Rook said. "It's simple." He leaned in and motioned for Orvyn to do the same. He obliged, eyes slightly narrowed. "I need your invitations to the masquerade at the castle so I can go in your stead. I'll need one of your carriages to get there as well."

Orvyn's expression turned stricken and he pulled away. "This is no small thing you ask of me, Master Rook." He shook his head. "My new wife will be furious with me. The masquerade is the only day of the year she is happy. She practically lives for that ball."

Rook shrugged. "Sorry to hear that, but this is my final request. It's the payment I require."

"Ermentrude terrifies me when she is angry," Orvyn moaned. The candle light glinted on the sheen of sweat pooling on his upper lip. "She becomes a fire drake. Worse than a fire drake."

"Unfortunate, but not my problem," Rook said.

Yska came by with plates of chicken pie and a mug of coffee for Briar. She brought a pitcher to fill Rook's own mug with coffee. Everyone seemed to know about Rook's mug.

Briar dug her fork into the steaming pie and took a bite, even though the knots in her stomach wouldn't uncoil.

As Rook took a calm sip of coffee, Orvyn swept off his cap to reveal a balding head. He used it to dab at his sweaty forehead. "I don't want to seem ungrateful for what you did for me."

"Then you will agree to my terms," Rook said simply.

"But," Orvyn continued, lifting a finger, "I plead you to reconsider. I have coin now. I can give you coin. Name your price."

"Have no need for coin," Rook said. "All I have need for are those invitations."

Orvyn thrummed his fingers on the table. "Why do you need them?" His eyes fell on Briar. "Just to show a lady a good time?"

Briar averted her gaze. Don't look too close at me, she thought. He might have been at the coronation, in a closer vicinity than most from Alysgard since he was of low nobility.

"No," Rook said. "For an important reason I don't need to divulge to you. It's none of your business, Orvyn."

The merchant sighed like a lodestone was tied to his neck . "Of course. I mean no disrespect." A painful pause stretched. Orvyn rubbed the back of his neck. "I will get you the invitations. Of course I will. I am sorry for my resistance. I just... my wife."

"Maybe if you remind her what I did for you it will soften the blow."

The merchant grimaced. "I doubt it. She doesn't care much for my daughter. But you are right... it's not your problem. Saints know I owe you this. It's a small thing considered what you've done. I will bring you the invitations and carriage the morning of Yonna's Feast."

"If you don't keep your word, know that I'll intercept you and your wife on your way to the castle. I'm certain your wife's anger at missing the ball would be nothing compared to her rage at walking home in a gown."

"I will keep my word, I will keep my word," Orvyn assured him. "I owe you that."

Rook held out his hand. Orvyn gave it a limp, half-hearted shake.

"Well, I guess I'd better go break the bad news to Ermentrude." He swung his leg over the bench and groaned as he got to his feet. "She is young and quite infatuated with you, I think. Maybe that will help matters."

"You'll be fine, Orvyn. See you soon."

The merchant nodded as he hoisted up his pants and turned to leave, saying nothing more to them.

Briar swallowed a bite of her pie. "What did you do for him?"

Rook used the side of his fork to cut into his own pie. "The man has a gambling problem and lots of enemies. He appears to be rich because he's a popular merchant, but in truth he's drowning in debt. A few years ago, some men he owed kidnapped his daughter and held her for ransom. Said they'd kill her if he didn't give them the money he owed them. Since he knew I was adept at hunting and fighting, he asked me to save his daughter. Instead of killing the men like Orvyn wanted, I paid off his debt. Told him to stop gambling so he wouldn't get in that kind of trouble again. He couldn't pay me back, of course, so I told him that I would ask him for a favor someday. I never expected that favor to actually come in handy."

Giving the table back, Rook led her to a table once again in a corner. "This is mine when I'm here," he said, setting his plate and mug down. "I never asked for it, but no one else ever sits here."

"They wouldn't dare take the monster hunter's preferred dark and gloomy corner table," Briar said with a smirk.

Rook scratched his head. "I guess I do have a type when it comes to tables."

They hardly had a chance to sit down before Briar saw someone cloaked in white get up and start towards them in the corner of her eye. Pausing mid-sip, she glanced at the person and nearly inhaled the hot coffee.

It was a member of the Amity of Lost Saints.