Half Moon Tavern

Wolfram entered the tavern in search of his squire. 

The evening was cold in Davrir, but warm bodies huddled together at tables, talking amicably, sloshing about pints of ale. A bard leaned against the fireplace, the crackling of flames just offbeat to the delicate resonance of their lute. Wolfram rubbed together his leather-bound hands; the cold had eaten through the old hide, leaving the tips of his fingers numb to the touch. He should have gotten a new pair of gloves a long time ago; though he had the coin, his will wouldn’t part with them. Not when they had been a gift. 

A handful of squires would soon be knighted, and tonight’s festivities at the Half Moon Tavern acted as but a final hurrah before duty succeeded youth. It was a long journey back to the castle, and Wolfram thought it best for the lad to catch some rest before the dawn bled through winter skies. Saints forbid he fell off his horse.

Wolfram spotted a congregation of eager-eyed men circled about a table in the far back corner of the tavern, holding coin purses to their chests as if in prayer. 

He shouldered his way to the tavern’s shadowed edge, stepping over a man passed out in a pool of spilt ale and vomit. 

Bertram, unsurprisingly, was one of the viewers, running back and forth between tall bodies to get a better look at the table. As he neared, Wolfram grabbed the boy by his collar and pulled him aside. Bertram let out an unfortunate half-yelp before his vision pieced together the man before him. His face went pale. 

“Sir?” he asked, squinting, “I-I thought you didn’t like taverns.” 

“Oh, I don’t,” Wolfram crossed his arms, amused with the state of his squire. Bertram couldn’t seem to stand in place. His knees wobbled like a newly-born fawn. “Our agreed upon hour has long since passed, Bertram.” 

“Indeed?” Bertram said, letting the question linger as he looked about the air for an excuse. His eyes locked back to the corner, eyebrows raising, chin lifting slightly—as if that might help him see through the crowd. 

Wolfram followed his line of sight. “What’s all the fuss about?” 

Bertram put a hand to Wolfram’s arm, then thought against it. “A woman challenged Sir Geir to a card match,” he said, eyes sparkling, “She nearly won back all the coin he’d taken from us squires.” 

“Aye?” Wolfram asked, feigning intrigue. He cared little for card games; gambling was a plague among the commoners. That the knights would stoop to participate in these useless, coin-snatching trials was beyond his understanding. 

Still, he couldn’t deny that watching Sir Geir be beaten at a game of wits would be worth the sight. In fact, it brought a smile to his lips. The man thought he was a walking almanac. 

But it was the candied laugh, a familiar mirth, that ultimately pulled him in, wrapped thorns around his heart. 

Before he could stop himself, Wolfram was crossing the floor to the card table, Bertram rambling behind him, a jangle of coins in his periphery. 

The men parted for him to approach the table, bowing their heads; before him was Sir Geir, a silver-haired frown, and the woman, hooded in evergreen velvet, a flashing smile cast in shadow. Vera, Bertram had called her—he heard that much when stalking over here. 

Cards were scattered between the two opponents, their hands pulling from stacks set to their left. He watched the speed in which they moved; cards removed from the table, added, and stolen to the other’s side. Sir Geir was sweating, eyes too slow to keep up with her quick movements. A droplet dragged itself down the side of his face, as if it, too, were feeling the pain of his oncoming defeat. Even Wolfram could see that the fool was holding on by a fraying thread. 

“It’s been my pleasure, Sir Geir,” Vera said, slowly sliding a card off the stack and into her hands. 

The placement of the card was final, a delicate incision into the knight’s purse, bleeding him dry. Sir Geir’s face fell into his palms, the cheers around him ear-shattering. Wolfram watched Vera gather her cards and earnings quietly, placing them into a small pouch; the crowd slowly dispersed around her, Sir Geir wandering away with deadened eyes, but Wolfram remained. She collected the final coin, admiring its shine in the dull lighting; it danced from knuckle to knuckle, a clever trick, as if she thought no one was watching. She radiated smugness. 

Bertram moved forward, blocked his view. He was stuttering out a thank you to her, and Wolfram watched as she removed the hood, her face coming into full view. 

The white, thin scar running down her lips was a dead giveaway. His body went still; though he half expected it was her all along, just from the laugh alone. His mind just couldn’t catch up to the reality. Before he realized what was happening, Bertram was turning to him, saying his name. 

Their eyes met, hers like a bottomless ink well. 

The coin slipped through her fingers. It clattered to the floor, starting to spin. 

They merely stared at one other. Recognition palpable, followed by a question in her eyes. Or was it a desire to flee? 

The coin slowed its spinning, fell flat to the floor. 

Her features smoothed over, shoulders straightened, and she reached out a hand. “Well met,” she spoke, eyes unwavering. Wolfram stared dumbly before taking her hand, much more calloused then he remembered. 

“Aye,” was all he could return, finding his fingers lingering just slightly as their hands parted.    

What a risk it was, her being here. She was lucky no one else placed her. How easy it would be, he considered, for him to expose her here. She’d be put in shackles, dragged to the castle like a prize. 

But her eyes begged for ignorance. 

Vera picked up the coin from the floor and plopped it into her bag, pulling at the drawstring. She nodded her head to the squire and his knight, and made to leave. Wolfram nearly grabbed her by the elbow as she passed, but thought the better of it. She still smelled of moss and roses. 

He watched as she walked out, likely hurrying to the stables. Bertram was stumbling out words from his mouth, too late to stop her. 

“Go back to the inn,” Wolfram ordered him, cutting off the boy’s incessant chatter. His feet moved him forward, toward the door. He turned back to Bertram, “And no more cards.” 

Wolfram reached the stables, only to find that one horse yet remained; his own. It whinnied when it saw him, puffs of white air steaming out from its nostrils. 

He wondered if Vera had already left, attempting to unravel the growing disappointment in his chest; the quiet steps behind him confirmed otherwise. She was waiting for him. 

“Wolfram,” she said, and he turned to face her. The princess’ cheeks were flushed with cold. The air smelled of oncoming snow. 

“So you’re going by Vera now?” he asked her, closing the distance by just a few inches. She didn’t seem to flinch back. “I’d thought you’d be far across the seas.” 

“I haven’t abandoned my kingdom,” she said, chin raising. 

“Haven’t you?” he asked, almost laughing. “Last I recall, you ran.” 

“And you stayed,” she bit back with a raised strain in her voice, before forcefully reeling the anger back in. She brought fingers to her forehead, struggling to filter herself. Frustration was a line on her lips. “I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend how you can serve them… wear their sigil.” She scowled at the golden pin fastened on his cloak. 

“I don’t have the luxury of that choice, and you know that,” he said, crossing his arms. 

“Of course you had a choice, Wolfram. I gave you one.” She put a hand to her heart.

“And I had to think of my men. If I didn’t bend the knee, they would all be slaughtered.” 

“They killed my parents,” she said through gritted teeth, body nearing closer to him. “Did you forget that so easily?” The argument was but a repeat of their last. It rung in his ears: she stumbling into his quarters, begging for his aid in revenge; a call to flee, amass an army to take back her birthright. He thought she was mad at the time, battered and unthinking. They had spared her life, and their people, what was left of them; he thought that had been enough. He wanted that to be enough… life was enough. He was so tired back then to think otherwise. 

“And what good you did to honor their deaths.” Wolfram glared down at her, fighting the itch that he had been wrong. It was hard to dispel the memory; holding her back as the king and queen were decapitated in the throne room—a punishment for pride at the hand of their conquerors, blood pooling onto marbled floors and plum-colored rugs. All was silent but for her screams at the drop of their heads, a carnal sound that still haunted his waking thoughts. But he’d always been horrified by her pain, not of their deaths. 

“Bold words coming from a coward,” she said, eyes wet. “Will you bring me in, then? Be a good pet?” She held out her wrists in mockery. 

Wolfram breathed deep. He knew he considered it, knew what it could mean, to return the princess to her castle. King Julius wanted none else for a bride—another mare to tame, as he’d called it. His trust in Wolfram would only deepen. But it wasn’t why he was before her now. 

He raised his hands in truce. “If I wanted to turn you in, I would’ve exposed you in the tavern.” 

She stood watching, gauging his honesty. Always calculating, she was. 

“I merely wanted to speak with you,” Wolfram offered, stepping closer. “I mean you no harm.” 

“I cannot promise the same for you,” she said, words crisp in the air. She’d gladly carve out his spine. 

Wolfram was amused to think they were once sparring partners. Her hair was much shorter then; tried to fool them all into thinking she was a squire—worked on all but him. Her hands were much too soft.  

She had awful technique to start; ugly bruises brandished her limbs for months, hidden beneath satin brocades, though she never once complained—only returned to make a fool of herself time and time again. Wolfram, against his better judgment, had taken a liking to her spirit and let her under his wing. He would spar with her in the gardens, covered in the blanket of night. If anything, it was entertaining to see her swear in frustration whenever he knocked the sword from her thin fingers again and again and again. He didn’t know royalty possessed such brine. Riling her up was the best part of his day.

The first time she knocked him to the floor, blade pointed at his neck, he began to see her differently. Noticed how her eyes were as deep as the night sky. A starless ocean of tumultuous black. He never felt himself to be more in danger than he had in that moment, looking up at her. And it was not because of the blade hovering near the flesh of his throat. 

He rubbed his fingers over his neck. “Your words haven’t lost their edge.” 

“A dull edge wouldn’t get me through negotiations, now would they?” She was still on a hunt for supporters; again, he admired her spirit. 

“Any takers?” 

“My lips are sealed.” His eyes fell on her mouth. The scar. She had never told him how she got it; only that it was the reason she wanted to learn how to fight. 

“So I’m your enemy now?” he asked, voice low. “Won’t divulge your secrets?”

“You were never keen on sharing your own.” 

“I think we’ve shared more than secrets, Vespera,” he said, her name slipping. 

“That ended the moment you chose them,” her voice cracked. “And I’ve wanted nothing more than to be rid of you.” 

“And yet here we stand,” Wolfram said, feeling a tug at his ribs. He swallowed.

“Indeed..” she trailed, a mix of fury and confusion. 

Their breaths curled up around them, warm and white. 

It wasn’t clear who was first to bend; but Wolfram was aware of her face in his hands, cold as porcelain; not nearly as fragile. Her lips were like nettles, a biting, lustful sting that awakened him, as if emerging from some unknown fog. 

They found themselves propped against the deteriorating gates of the stables, the wood and nails groaning against the weight of their pressing bodies. 

Her waist was smaller, his hands nearly holding all of her as he trailed his mouth along the line of her jaw, the scar on her lips, the pillow of her corseted breasts. 

But as his hands trailed to her skirts, touching the skin of her thighs, he felt a sharp point at the base of his neck. A small dagger, glinting in the moonlight, pressed gently into skin, his chin pointed up; wounded eyes looked into the wells of black. She pressed the blade deeper, breaking the skin. Still, he did not move; let the blood drip down the blade, fall to the space between them. 

“Kill me, if you will,” he said, his voice a husk. “I’d gladly die by that hand.”

She stepped around him, still pointing the blade. Her lips were swollen. “I can’t kill you, Wolfram.” She looked sad, almost regretful. But perhaps that’s what he wanted to believe. “But I can’t let you get in my way.” 

With the hilt of her blade, she knocked him unconscious, his body falling limp to the frozen earth; swallowed by the black sea.