SNEAK PEEK

CHAPTER ONE

 

A new day dawned, and already mistakes had been made.

By me.

Mainly, that I'd lost track of time... Again.

Cursing my own carelessness, I pumped my legs in a frantic blur, but that didn’t help to carry me any faster down the cobblestone streets of Briarhaven.

It always seemed that no matter how hard I tried—and believe me, I tried—it still took twice as long to get anywhere. That’s just how things worked when you stood hardly a smidge over three feet tall.

I tried my best. Really, I did.

But I had a way of losing track of people, things, and especially time. In that moment, I felt like a silly little fly drowning in a puddle of mead after drinking its fill. At least the fly had a good excuse for its dilemma.

As for me? Um, I could still make it—if I don't hit any detours, if absolutely everything went perfectly, and if by some beautiful act of divine intervention, I managed to add a few feet to my stumpy leg-span sometime in the next three seconds.

Yeah, none of that was going to happen, but a gal could still hope.

At least I knew my boss wouldn't give me a hard time about my tardiness today. Honestly, he rarely gave anyone a hard time about anything.

Brynlee, though, she was a different story entirely. My sweet elven coworker was counting on me; she was also the last person I’d ever want to let down. The poor thing worked so hard for so little, and she didn't need me making her life any more difficult. Especially not on such an important day.

Gah! Stupid, stupid.

“Evening, Tilda,” the local baker was eager to greet me. His words came out just as smooth as the butter he so generously slathered on his breads, but they had no effect on me. Like me, he was a halfling. Unlike me, he thought we should go on a date. And that was so not happening.

I didn't even glance his way as I called out, "Oh no, you don’t, Bramble Thistledown! It’s not the evening yet. You can wish your own day away, but don’t you dare steal time from me."

I tried to lift my feet higher, faster, as I navigated the winding streets of the cozy village I'd called home for nearly a decade now. My breaths came out in ragged huffs as Bramble's throaty chuckle chased after me.

Up ahead, I spotted the village square. It meant I was getting close now. Typically, this spot was a hub of activity at this time of day. But today, it lay empty, save for Ol' Clara sitting on her usual bench by the community flower garden. The elderly gnome gave me a toothless grin and waved her cane in greeting. "Afternoon, Tilda dear! Cutting it a bit close today, aren't we?"

I forced a smile and waved back. No time, no time. "You know me. Always living life on the edge!"

Clara just chuckled and shook her head, returning to her people watching even though there were precious few people to watch. That would change come tomorrow as out-of-towners began to flood our small town for the festival, but the brief and sudden surge in our population was a problem for tomorrow. I needed to focus on the problem I had that very minute—the whole being horribly late thing.

Just a little further... I willed my aching legs to move faster still, ignoring the painful stitch that had now begun to form in my side. Seconds later, I breezed past the apothecary with its strange herbal scents and then the boisterous sounds of the armory. The blacksmith's hammer pounded out a steady beat to match my pace.

I rounded another corner and, at last, the Mystic Mug came into view. This wasn't just my place of employment. It was my favorite place in all of Briarhaven. Heck, in all of Verandel too. Whenever I was closed within those four walls, I felt safe. Felt like I could actually be myself. Like nothing mattered, not even time.

And when you’re in perpetual hiding, that’s a pretty huge deal.

Taking a quick moment to smooth my wrinkled tunic, I peeked in through one of the small porthole-style windows that adorned the building. Didn't look too busy yet, but soon the place would be bustling with life—and I'd be contentedly soaking up every single second of it.

The busier I stayed now, the less I thought about what happened back then. Almost ten years had passed, and it still felt like yesterday.

Maybe that's why I was late so often. I needed the numbing thrill of the rush to keep me focused on the present, to keep my mind from wandering back, from wondering what if…

But this wasn't the time to torment myself yet again. No. I needed to get in there and start my shift. After all, that was the whole point of my ridiculous rush through town in the first place.

And so, I approached the thick, weather-worn door to the tavern, readying an apology for Brynlee, especially since I’d promised her just yesterday that I wouldn’t be late, that I’d be early even. Sigh. When was I going to learn?

At least I was here now. I also knew she would forgive me faster than I could mutter the short two syllables required to give voice to my sorry.

Right before I passed through the threshold, I reached up with both hands and slapped at the empty air. I missed the ornate sign that featured a bold, curly font and a tarnished metal tankard by a good three feet. It didn't even swing in the gentle pre-twilight breeze as it hung from Durgan's old battle maul, stiff as a board, mocking me in the way only an old friend could.

Silly as it may sound, our more vertically blessed patrons had a habit of smacking the tavern sign both on their way in and their way out. Somewhere along the way it became a bit of a running joke that I attempt to do it too, and so I did. The more people kept smiling and laughing, the less they thought of asking any questions. That was a big part of how I'd survived undiscovered for so long.

Maybe one day I'd finally stop worrying. Maybe one day I’d also learn to keep track of time. Those were both big maybes. I knew they’d never happen—not for real—but I still liked to pretend I could be different, better, freer.

"I’m here, I’m here," I cried, moving swiftly toward the long right-angled bar in the corner. They didn't call me Quickthatch for nothing. Yeah, I couldn't move as fast as I'd like most of the time. But when I saw Brynlee, it's like some unseen force pushed me toward her.

She appeared unbothered as she ran a rag across the polished wooden top of the counter, her silver hair falling forward to conceal her face. She kept polishing with one hand and used the other to tuck the errant lock behind her pointed ear, focusing intently as if she had all the time in the world.

Heat rose to my cheeks as I unconsciously pushed a strand of my own graying brown and very curly hair behind an ear. All my remaining breath whooshed out of my lungs, and I felt as if I might fall to the floor. I felt the same way each day whenever I first laid eyes upon this particular coworker and friend.

Believe me when I say, everything about Brynlee Starbrook was sweet, kind, unimposing—the patrons loved her, and so did I. She and the tavern owner, Durgan Stoutbarrel, were the closest thing I had to a family in this town. I only wished I got to see her more, but she worked days at Mystic Mug while I managed the nights.

We were like ships passing in the harbor, or some other such tired metaphor. Yet, no matter what problems life threw at me, Brynlee’s smile always gave me the strength to find one of my own. It had been that way ever since she started working at the Mug a couple years back. She just had that warm and fuzzy thing that everyone ate right up. Probably explained why she got better tips than me.

But I wasn't in this business to charm customers or amass great riches. I was simply trying to survive the best I could, and for me, that meant remaining hidden, anonymous. Just another cog in this well-oiled machine with a small-town facade.

I waited, knowing my friend wouldn't stop until her task was done—also knowing that she wouldn’t have even begun this task had I shown up on time to relieve her. Slowly, I let my heart rate drop back from the current bada-bada-bada back to its more normal boom-boom-boom. The comforting warmth of the tavern helped to soothe me, wrapping me in a much-needed embrace. Masoned walls created from small, smooth stones that had once lined the local riverbed stretched high to a single steepled point on the ceiling and a series of heavy wooden beams drew the eye up, somehow making it both cozy and expansive at the exact same time.

I still vividly remember my first time walking into this place almost ten years ago. As a dwarfish tavern, it felt just my size. Since then, Durgan had remodeled to make the establishment more inviting to patrons of all sizes, but back then, the slight, cramped interior had made me feel right at home.

The Mystic Mug was different now, but I'd grown and changed right alongside it.

I no longer felt as small as I looked, but I still found it very necessary to hide my past. Small towns were always big on drama, just not normally the world-ending variety. Durgan knew a bit about what I'd once been, but even he'd been entrusted with precious little—and Brynlee less still. I worried she'd no longer like me if she learned of the scrapes I’d gotten myself into during my adventuring days, of the decisions that had been necessary in order to survive.

Her friendship meant too much to me to ruin it by being the wrong type of friend, or the wrong type of person. And so, I hid my secrets to keep all of us safe, but also to make sure I remained relatively happy.

And my sweet elven colleague was a huge part of that continued happiness.

Brynlee’s elbow grease now had the countertop shining as if by magic, though she swore up and down she didn't have a single drop of the stuff running through her veins. I rubbed my palm across it, feeling the grooves and knots in the wood, letting the physical sensation ground me back in the present moment.

Brynlee hummed a quick beat and tossed the used rag into the bucket, finally acknowledging my arrival. "I was beginning to think I’d have to send out a wing scout to track you down." She made light, but I could tell my tardiness had upset her. It upset me too.

"I’m sorry. I wish I had a better excuse, but I just lost track of time. Anyway, you need to get going. So, go. Go!" I grabbed the discarded rag and shooed her out from behind the bar, playfully threatening with a small snap of the damp cloth.

My over-the-top gesture made her giggle. All seemed to be forgiven, though I doubted Brynlee could ever truly be angry to begin with. She glanced at the custom-crafted clock hanging above the narrow stone fireplace that stretched up through the ceiling in the opposite corner of our establishment—a gift from an artisan who was better at putting beer in his belly than gold toward his tab.

"I can still make it," Brynlee sang, rushing toward the door without a single glance back my way. That was okay. She needed to get gone, not stay here and chat idly with me.

"Tell that kid of yours to break an arm!" I called after her. Sure, the expression was to break a leg, but in my experience, it was always better to break an arm. Your opponent couldn’t run away if you broke their leg, but take out the arm and they could no longer fire a bow at you, throw a knife… or a flaming sack of crap. I found maiming from the top-down made for the safest and more surefire escape.

Truth be told, I’d broken many of both types of limb in my time—not my own, mind you—but my adventuring days had long since passed. I did love hearing about the exploits of Brynlee’s teenaged daughter, Calina, though. Gave me a bit of vicarious satisfaction, reminded me of the old days. Or at least all the best parts of them.

That child had a wanderlust I found quite relatable and couldn't help but admire, even though I hated the trouble it caused her mother.

Because while Brynlee craved a good and simple life, Calina longed for something much greater. I had no doubts she'd one day depart for good and break her poor, sweet mother’s heart. If that ever happened, I’d be here to pick up the pieces and see what we might build from them.

For now, though, Calina remained here in Briarhaven, and tonight she had a bit part in the local academy’s stage adaptation of Legends of Yore. The play was a bit dated for my taste, but small towns had never been the cultural centers of the world. Most of the time the only good stuff we got was whatever stuff hadn’t been bought up by the other towns along the merchant routes—or we were left with the things so cliché and overdone that no one else wanted them anymore. Legends of Yore fit into the latter category.

Calina was none too happy about getting overlooked for the starring role, but Brynlee was elated that the required afterschool practice gave her child something to do, something that would hopefully keep that little miscreant out of trouble.

Oh, sweet divinity, I used to love finding trouble.

Well, you know what they say. Trouble has a way of coming to those who go looking for it. As I thought these words, I could hear the gruff voice of the city watch commander that had tried for years to set me on the “right path.” His efforts had of course proven fruitless.

Oh, if only he could see me now. A common small-town tavern wench. He’d be ecstatic. Half the time I was ecstatic too. For years I’d thought adventuring was the only path for me, but retirement hadn’t proven half bad.

I watched Brynlee disappear into the evening dusk, no doubt rushing to get a good seat for Calina's performance. She could move faster than me without even trying most days, her long legs effortlessly gliding across a distance that took me three steps to clear. When she was motivated, she moved like a gazelle, her smooth movement making her almost appear to be flying like leaves before a storm. And as far as I’d observed over the years, absolutely nothing motivated her more than that kid of hers.

I let out a long exhale and turned back to the empty tavern. Just me now. Alone, but only for a little while. Soon this place would be filled to the gills, and I'd be too busy doing to worry much about thinking.

I took a quick inventory of our spirits and noted down what replenishments we'd soon need to order, then I disappeared into the small kitchen tucked into the back room and chopped a few root vegetables to add to that night's stew. Brynlee had already gotten it started for me. It was meant to be my responsibility, but the whole thing started off when Brynlee had realized the customers had a far easier time getting home safely when we first managed to feed them. They flirted less and tipped better too.

I finished up in the back of the house, listening intently for any slaps on the sign that would signal I needed to return to the bar. But no one had come in yet. Slow night.

My boss Durgan greeted me the moment I returned to the front of the tavern. “Enjoying your last night of freedom?” He settled upon one of the thick dwarven barrels that lined the counter. Each barrel was shaped more like a sphere than a cylinder, bloated fat in the middle. They sported intricate carvings that told of the lands in which they’d been built. The one Durgan sat upon came from a small village situated in a mountain pass, which meant it had been soldered with an impressive brass ring. It was my favorite, and I suspected it was Durgan’s too.

His cherry-red beard was done up in a series of intricate braids, with various trinkets tucked into the strands, giving him an odd but jovial appearance. Although now he tended to jingle when he walked. The ridiculousness of his grooming matched his equally larger-than-life personality. Each of his baubles represented something important to him, visual reminders of his former heroics—and each came with a story that he'd told so many times I now had it memorized word-for-word.

I chuffed at his greeting. “Freedom, ha! What are you even talking about? I’m still here, aren’t I?"

Durgan let out a hearty chuckle and ran a palm over his bald head. He lost his hair young, I’d been told, which is why he tended to overcompensate with that crazy bedazzled beard of his.

“Who are you kidding? You love it here, prisoner of the month," he snapped back.

I rolled my eyes, grasping for my default response when someone hits too close to home: sarcasm. “You know, most employers call it employee of the month, but sure, yeah, let’s go with prisoner.”

He didn't need me to tell him that he was right. Truly, there was nowhere else I’d rather be. But to hammer home the joke, I made sure to hum an old prison song that the hard labor prisoners would sing while working the quarry. Even though I didn’t choose retirement the way Durgan had, that didn't mean I couldn't enjoy it.

Yup, my boss was a retired adventurer—just like me. He used to be a paladin of some sort until one day he decided he'd had enough. Said he’d rather put down roots, to work on building something rather than destroying everything.

"I hear the inns are already reaching capacity." He repositioned himself on the stool and leaned forward to lock eyes with me. "I’ve asked Pat to clear out some space in our storerooms just in case we can pick up an extra coin or two."

"Good thinking," I responded with a nod. "There’s nothing wrong with taking money when people want to give it to you." After all, I silently added to myself, it took a lot of coin to cover the expense of a certain someone's nightly drinking habit.

"You said that right." He laughed again, as if he'd heard both the part I said aloud and the part I didn't. Then, after a brief pause, he pounded a fist on the counter and rose to his feet. Durgan was tall for a dwarf, but even he could barely see over the gleaming wooden bar top while standing on his feet. Of course, I had already taken up position on the sturdy metal crate that I’d spend all night moving back and forth to ensure I could see any customer who sidled up to ask for a drink.

A resounding slap called to us from the doorway, and my gaze followed the sound just as one of our many regulars made his way inside.

Durgan saw him too and let out a hearty cheer, pumping a plump fist in the air. "Insy, my good lad! What can Tilda get started for you on this fine evening?"

The newly arrived infernal lifted one well-manicured brow and shrugged. He was a fellow of few phrases, and he made sure every single one of them counted.

At a smidge over seven feet tall, with curling ram's horns sprouting from his forehead and eyes that glowed like hot coals, he cut an imposing figure. But I knew better than to judge a person by their cover. Insy was one of the kindest and gentlest folks I knew. Second only to Brynlee.

"The usual?" I asked with a knowing smile.

"Please," he rumbled in a voice that shook the air like far-off thunder. I nodded and got to work mixing up his favorite drink—a sweet concoction I liked to call Demon's Delight. Insy watched me expectantly as I deftly combined fruit juices and spirits, his tail swishing back and forth in anticipation.

"Make it two, Tilda, and bring them over this way," Durgan shouted, moving toward the fireplace where he knew our infernal guests feel most at home.

He was a boss in name only. More than anything he was the famed mascot of the Mystic Mug. Sure, he owned the place, but he also spent his entire time carousing with the clientele. In fact, half my job was making sure he didn't get too tipsy to find his way home to his partner, Pat, who spent long days working as a blacksmith's apprentice.

Night and day, those two. Still, they made a good pair.

Not unlike Brynlee and me.

Speaking of, Calina must have been just about ready to take the stage by then. I could picture Brynlee gracefully poised in the very front row as she waited for the curtain to rise. She was the peaceful sort, but I had no doubts she'd charmed her way into the very best seat.

She’d do anything for that child of hers. Just like I'd do pretty much anything for her… Provided I didn't lose track of time, that was.

With a fresh zest of citrus fruit, I finished off the pair of cocktails for Durgan and Insy, then moseyed over to the fireplace to hand them off. A muscle in my thigh cramped from the earlier rush through town, and I stumbled forward from the sudden burst of pain. Not a single drop spilled from either glass, though.

Some are born with gifts of brawn or brains, but I’d been bequeathed an unnatural grace. In fact, I could’ve carried this tray through my dash through town earlier without losing even the slightest bit of the liquid.

Durgan caught my eye, and I could tell he wanted to ask whether I was okay, but he also didn't want to worry our customer, so instead he waited for me to give him a silent signal. If I needed anything, he'd be the first to jump to my rescue.

I appreciated that about him, but a little muscle cramp was the least of my worries. Truly. I tucked my hair behind my right ear to let him know I was fine. Right was good; left meant there was trouble. It was a code we used to update Durgan when needed, but that communication only worked one way given his baldness.

I turned to make my way back to the counter and caught sight of a new arrival.

He hadn’t slapped the sign like our regulars did, or I would’ve heard him enter. Instead, he’d just appeared in the corner of my eye like an apparition. He must have been new around here. It was impossible to tell, since a dark, ragged hood covered more than half of his face, keeping any identifying features obscured beneath.

I floated over to him with as much grace as I could muster and offered my usual greeting. "Welcome to the Mystic Mug. What can I do you for?"

But the strange new arrival didn't make a single movement to acknowledge I'd joined him. He didn't say anything, either. He just sat there being creepy like some kind of ominous cliche.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I tried again, working hard not to let the irritation slip into my voice. “Or eat? We’ve got a nice, little menu of—”

I stopped short when the cloaked figure wrapped long, ice-cold fingers around my left forearm and clamped down like a spring-locked hunting trap, igniting an old wound I worked hard to keep hidden. A chill shot through me, and that knot of pain in my thigh roared to life again. I twisted and yanked, but my assailant held tight, looming above me even though I stood and he remained seated.

Thank the divine, Durgan appeared when he did, charging forth from his cozy spot at the fireplace as if he were rushing into war. “Unhand her. No one assaults my employees but me!” His voice resonated with an authority that’s hard to ignore despite his diminutive stature or his distasteful—and, frankly, untrue—attempt at humor. No one in this town cared more about his staff than old Durgan Stoutbarrel, and that was a fact.

I jerked my arm again, and at last, the unwelcome stranger released his grip. My throbbing arm fell back to my side, and I stood rooted to the spot as the mystery man fled the tavern and faded into the night. Not even Durgan’s shouted demands for an explanation managed to bring him back. And I guess that meant I'd never know who he was or what the heck he wanted with me.

Finally admitting defeat, Durgan gave up on shouting and dropped his voice to a heady whisper. "What was that all about?"

I shrugged, still shaken by the whole thing. I was supposed to be safe here. The fact that I had no idea who that man was or why he'd grabbed me set my heart into a frantic gallop.

I worked hard to add a note of detached humor to my voice. "Probably just an out-of-towner here for the festival. I'd wager he had more than his fair share of ale before finding his way here."

Unfortunately, I didn't believe that at all. Drunks tended to stumble and crash around. Whoever this was had slipped in and out like a living shadow, which couldn't mean anything good.

Have I been found out at last?

No. Impossible.

I chose Briarhaven because this sleepy little town never attracted anyone's attention. Then again, the festival happening in a couple days would bring in outsiders by the bucketful. Stupid Centaurs and their stupid centennial celebration. Why should I care that one-hundred years ago one of their ancestors crossed some great expanse to found our village? Sure, I liked living here, but I'd be a whole lot more impressed by their great feats, if the dudes weren't already half-horse. Their race had literally been built for this kind of thing, which made it hard for me to see the point of celebrating.

Well, at least this wasn't a problem I'd have to deal with again for another hundred years. I just had to get through the next few days unnoticed and unscathed, then things could go back to how they were.

After the run-in with our cloaked friend, I'd have stayed at home and hidden beneath my bedsheets if I weren't so worried about letting Durgan down.

"Just be careful," he said, offering a firm pat on my shoulder. "I can't lose my number-one princess just before the big ball." He winked, knowing full well that his friendly joke would melt right through the icy terror that had frozen me to the spot just moments before.

"Your jokes would have more of an impact if you at least tried to keep them consistent," I said, slipping back into our previous banter with ease. "I mean, am I a princess or a prisoner? Make up your mind already."

"I don't see why you can't be both," he called over his shoulder on his way back toward Insy and the fruity cocktail awaiting him there. Durgan was the princess, and he knew it better than anyone. Still, he'd been the one to save my butt tonight.∗

And I simply couldn't let that happen again.

As much as I loved my found family, I knew better than to rely on them. It’s why I did my best to keep some distance, to only let my guard down while in the tavern and on the clock.

My problems were my own, and it would kill me if either Durgan or Brynlee ended up paying the price for the many misdeeds of my past.

Must be more careful. Must remain alert. Must stay hidden.

And most importantly must not let anyone down ever again.