A Feast of Dragons - By Morgan Rice Page 0,24
around the tree, providing a secure rope for the others.
“One at a time!” O’Connor called down.
“You go,” Reese said to Thor.
“After you,” Thor said.
Reese climbed up, and Thor waited until he reached the top, then followed. It was easy compared to climbing the rock face, and soon Thor reached the top.
He was sweating, breathing hard, beyond exhausted, and he collapsed on the grass as he reached the island. It was real, soft grass, and after what he had been through, he felt as if he had landed on the most luxurious of beds.
Thor lifted his head enough to look out at the sunset all around him, casting a mystical light onto this strange place. It was craggy, desolate, forlorn, covered in an eerie and unwelcoming mist. The mist seemed to taint everything, seemed to threaten to swallow him whole. It was hardly a place he would call welcoming.
Thor swallowed. This desolate place, in the middle of nowhere, at the top of the world, would be home for the next hundred days.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gwendolyn ran through the back streets of King’s court, twisting and turning, trying to remember her way to the alehouse. She had only been here once in her life, when trying to retrieve Godfrey for some occasion, and she had never frequented this part of King’s Court since. It was too seedy for her, and she felt uncomfortable from all the stares as the streets became populated with unruly types. It saddened her that Godfrey had wasted so much of his life here, in this place that was beneath him. It had put a stain on the honor of the royal family, and she knew he was better than that.
Tears still poured down her cheeks and her heart still pounded as she ran through her mind, again and again, what had just happened at the river. She reached up and felt the small cut on her cheek, still stinging, still fresh, and wondered if it would scar. Gwen looked down at her hand and saw it was covered in blood. She had not taken time to bandage it—but that was the least of it now. She realized how lucky she was not to have been killed or maimed; she thought of Ephistopheles, and felt certain her father had saved her. Looking back, she should have heeded her dream more carefully. But how? Dreams were still a mystery to her. She never quite knew the right course of action to take, even when it seemed clear.
She knew of Gareth’s dog’s reputation for butchery, knew how many people he had maimed for life and marveled that she had escaped. She grew cold thinking that Gareth had sent him to her. Her mind spun with the implications. Obviously he would not have sent him unless he had something to hide about their father’s murder. She felt more certain of it than ever. The question was how to prove it. She would not give up until she did—even if it meant risking her own life. Gareth must have thought that that man would scare her away—but the opposite was true. Gwen was not one to back down. And when someone tried to scare or threaten her, she always fought back twice as hard.
She turned yet another corner, and finally saw the tavern, crooked, sagging on one end, the structure way too old and never tended well to begin with. The door was partially open, and two drunks stumbled out of it, one of them lighting up at the sight of her.
“Hey, look here!” he said, elbowing his buddy, who, more drunk than he, turned and belched at her.
“Hey miss, going our way?” he yelled, and shrieked with laughter at his own joke.
They lurched towards her, but after what she had been through, Gwen was not afraid. She was in no mood for everyday cretins—and she pushed them roughly out of her way. Caught off guard, they stumbled back, drunk.
“Hey!” one screamed, indignant.
But Gwen hurried past them, unafraid, right into the open tavern. In the mood she was in, if one of them followed her in, she would find an empty glass and smash it on his head. That would make them think twice about addressing a member of the royal family so disrespectfully.
Gwen strode into the tavern, the smell hitting her, and as she did, the rowdy atmosphere fell silent, all heads turning. There were dozens of seedy types in here, all drinking, all slovenly; she could scarcely believe how many people were