Treacherous Witch

37. Bolebund

"Magic is most effective against those ignorant of it. No magic trick will fool a priestess. She'll see right through it."
Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

On the second day, they arrived in Bolebund. They'd spent the night at the encampment of General Leamsbrand, where Lord Avon had disappeared for several hours to consult with the general. Naturally, Valerie had not been allowed to join the war council. Instead, she'd looked out at the camp from her tent, trying to count the number of tents from the lanterns shining in the darkness.

They seemed endless. Far more than a thousand.

Could Bolebund withstand such numbers? The city had been smaller than Jairah before the war, but much of the northern population had fled behind its borders to escape the Drakonian army. How many men did they have able to fight?

Valerie pondered this as she and Avon rode into the city under cover of darkness.

For this final part of the journey, they were alone. They'd been stopped twice, first at a bridge guarded by Maskamery men, and then at the gates of the city itself. Both times Valerie took the lead, exaggerating her northern accent and offering the guards samples of wine to recommend to their families. Avon hid his face with scarf and hood, and that was enough to get them past the city walls.

Bolebund was not how she remembered. She'd visited once before the war, and back then it had been famous for its wonderful floral displays and herbal gardens. Every street had been vibrant with colour, every building festooned with hanging flowers and vines. In the town centre there had been a pavilion where apple, pear and orange trees grew improbably together. She didn't remember the city being walled.

They stopped outside an inn, Avon tying up the horses. Valerie wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and looked around. Light rain pattered the streets. A mournful flower basket hung by the porch. Everywhere else seemed miserably grey.

Avon came over, pulling down his hood and scarf as he ducked under the porch.

"You'd better not speak," she said. "Your accent will give you away."

The way he pronounced his vowels was all wrong. No one listening would believe he was a simple wine merchant. He had a certain way of moving too, a regal lift to his shoulders, an almost feline grace. He carried himself like he should command every man and woman in the room. She frowned, pursing her lips.

"Try not to look so... haughty."

"Haughty?" The curl of his lip was nothing but haughty.

She shook her head, setting her hands on his roughwoven jacket. "You don't own this place. No one here will do what you tell them. You should be... humble. Mild-mannered. A little nervous, because of the war. Oh, Maska, your nose."

The aquiline nose, the hawk-like profile. It was a distinctively Drakonian feature.

"Markus, the humble, mild-mannered merchant," he said. "Yes, I think it's best I say as little as possible. What are you touching me for?"

She'd reached up to cup his cheek. "Let me hide it."

A simple trick. She traced her fingers over his face and gave him a straight nose instead—bland, forgettable. Nothing about his face had changed; it was a simple illusion. The effect softened his features. It was odd. Not bad looking. But a forgettable face was the point.

He frowned. "Doesn't your spell already shield us?"

"It stops us drawing attention. We'll have to get the attention of the innkeeper, so I've disguised you to be safe. Come on."