ran through these streets, and not because of the drunks and scoundrels all around her; rather, she feared her brother, Gareth. He had seemed demonic in their last meeting, and she could not get the image of his face, of his eyes, from her mind—so black, so soulless. He looked possessed. His sitting on their father’s throne had made the image even more surreal. She feared his retribution. Perhaps he was, indeed, plotting to marry her off, something she would never allow; or perhaps he just wanted to throw her off guard, and he was really planning to assassinate her. Gwen looked around, and as she ran, every face seemed hostile, foreign. Everyone seemed like a potential threat, sent by Gareth to finish her off. She was becoming paranoid.
Gwen turned the corner and bumped shoulders with a drunken old man, knocking her off balance, and she jumped and screamed involuntarily. She was on-edge. It took her a moment to realize it was just a careless passerby, not one of Gareth’s henchmen; she turned and saw him stumble, not even turning back to apologize. The indignity of this part of town was more than she could stomach. If it were not for Godfrey she would never come near it, and she hated him for making her stoop to this. Why couldn’t he just stay away from the alehouses?
Gwen turned another corner and there it was: Godfrey’s tavern of choice, an excuse of an establishment, sitting there crooked, door ajar, drunks spilling out of it, as they perpetually did. She wasted no time, and hurried through its open door.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust in the dim bar, which reeked of stale ale and body odor; as she entered, the place fell silent. The two dozen or so men stuffed inside all turned and looked at her, surprised. Here she was, a member of the royal family, dressed in finery, charging into this room that probably hadn’t been cleaned in years.
She marched up to a tall man with a large belly whom she recognized as Akorth, one of Godfrey’s drinking companions.
“Where’s my brother?” she demanded.
Akorth, usually in high spirits, usually ready to unleash a tawdry joke that he himself was too satisfied with, surprised her: he merely shook his head.
“It does not fare well, my lady,” he said, grim.
“What do you mean?” she insisted, her heart thumping.
“He took some bad ale,” said a tall, lean man whom she recognized as Fulton, Gareth’s other companion. “He went down late last night. Hasn’t gotten up.”
“Is he alive?” she asked, frantic, grabbing Akorth’s wrist.
“Barely,” he answered, looking down. “He’s had a rough go. He stopped speaking about an hour ago.”
“Where is he?” she insisted.
“In the back, missus,” said the barkeep, leaning across the bar as he wiped a mug, looking grim himself. “And you best have a plan to deal with him. I’m not going to have a corpse lingering in my establishment.”
Gwen, overwhelmed, surprised herself and drew a small dagger, leaning forward and holding the tip to the barkeep’s throat.
He gulped, looking back in shock, as the place fell deadly silent.
“First of all,” she said, “this place is not an establishment—it is an excuse of a watering hole, and one that I will have razed to the ground by the royal guard if you address me that way again. You may begin by addressing me as my lady.”
Gwen felt outside of herself, and was surprised by the strength overcoming her; she had no idea where it was coming from.
The barkeep gulped.
“My lady,” he echoed.
Gwen held the dagger steady.
“Secondly, my brother shall not die—and certainly not in this place. His corpse would do your establishment far more honor than any living soul who has passed through here. And if he does die, you can be sure the blame will fall on you.”
“But I did nothing wrong, my lady!” he pleaded. “It was the same ale I served to everybody else!”
“Someone must have poisoned it,” Akorth added.
“It could have been anyone,” Fulton said.
Gwen slowly lowered her dagger.
“Bring me to him. Now!” she ordered.
The barkeep lowered his head in humility this time, and turned and hurried through a side door behind the bar. Gwen followed on his heels, Akorth and Fulton joining her.
Gwen entered the small back room of the tavern and heard herself gasp as she saw her brother, Godfrey, laid out on the floor, supine. He looked more pale than she had ever seen him. He looked a step away from death. It