Chapter 13 Travel Stop
On the seventh day, Daisy reached the borderland. Here, the road carved a ragged line between two kingdoms, one starving, one obscene with plenty. On the right: shacks with mossy roofs, windows nailed shut, fields of weeds gone to seed. On the left: a stone wall high enough to keep out hope, and behind it, the greenest fields Daisy had ever seen. Wheat, thick as a noblewoman’s braid, bowing under the impossible weight of ripeness. Apple trees in blossom and fruit at the same time, petals scattering over cartloads of cherries picked by children in crisp uniforms.
Daisy kept to the shadow of the wall. She felt the hum of magic in her molars, a faint blue throb that pulsed whenever the wind shifted. The air on this side of the wall was hotter, drier; it carried the sickly-sweet tang of magic at work, the way blood sometimes tasted when you bit your tongue hard enough. She watched a farmhand herd a flock of chickens through a shimmer in the air, the birds popping from scrawny to plump as they crossed the line. The boy noticed Daisy, raised a hand in greeting, then saw the state of her clothes and snapped the gate shut, face vanishing behind a practiced sneer.
She passed through three villages in as many hours, never stopping, never letting herself get seen. In the ditches, she saw women picking through last year’s trash for anything that could burn. Daisy’s own boots were peeling at the seams, mud caked so thick it hid the holes. Her hunger had gone from knife-sharp to dull and omnipresent, just another ache like the cold or the taste of old fear.
By dusk, Daisy found herself on the outskirts of a market town. The road was jammed with wagons, some loaded with sacks of grain, others stacked with crates stamped in blue wax, a sigil unfamiliar but imposing. A crowd had gathered outside a squat, two-story inn, its sign swinging in the wind: THE CRACKED TANKARD. Daisy lingered, watching for patterns. The guards at the door wore mismatched leathers, more mercenary than militia. Most of the travelers were merchants, their wagons gleaming with fresh paint, boots shiny as a mirror. Daisy looked at her own reflection in a puddle and saw only mud, sunken cheeks, and a mouth that no longer remembered how to smile.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and money. The floorboards were warped, the tables crowded. Daisy counted at least three card games in progress, two fights simmering in the corners, and a dozen pairs of eyes that would have rolled her for a half-copper if she lingered too long. She slipped into the kitchen and found the innkeeper’s wife, a woman with arms like hams and a bun of gray hair that looked ready to explode.
The woman saw Daisy, took in her condition, and scowled. “You lost?”
Daisy stood straight. “Looking for work. I’ll scrub pans for a crust.”
The woman sized her up, eyes sharp as glass. “You run from something?”
Daisy shrugged. “Don’t we all.”
A snort, but not unkind. The woman tossed Daisy an apron and pointed to the sink. “Show me you can work, and maybe you’ll get a slice.”
The kitchen was an oven. Daisy plunged her hands into the first bucket and nearly howled—the water was scalding, laced with some soap that stung like fire. The pans were black with old fat, the knives crusted with the ghosts of a hundred meals. She attacked the job as if it owed her money, scraping and scouring, ignoring the rawness in her palms as she stacked one pot after another on the drying board.
Every so often, the young, blonde serving girl would pass through with a fresh stack of dirty plates, constantly dropping some gossip with the load.
“Trade caravan came in from the east. Lost a man to bandits, but the rest made it.”
“Guard captain’s drunk again. Bet he won’t last the week.”
“Merchants in the front room are talking about Ravensworth. Something about his ‘collection’.”
That word made Daisy pause, but she kept her head down and listened.
After an hour, the innkeeper’s wife returned. She slammed a hunk of bread and a cup of broth down next to Daisy.
“You work hard,” the woman said. “Harder than the pretty ones.”
Daisy wiped her hands on the apron and ate. The bread was stale but dense, the broth thin but hot. She wanted to ask for more, but pride wouldn’t let her. She licked the bowl clean and went back to the pans.
The voices in the next room grew louder as the night went on. Daisy scrubbed more slowly, angling herself to hear better the conversation bleeding through the wall.
“…told you, it’s not just for show,” one merchant was saying, voice hoarse from drink. “Ravensworth’s menagerie is the source of his family’s power. They drain those beasts like wine casks.”
A slurp, a belch. “My cousin’s brother-in-law, who works in the stables, says they’ve doubled the barriers since the last incident.”
A low laugh. “You mean the girl?”
“No. The handler. Tried to free a wyvern, got caught. They made an example of him.”
“Can’t blame the Lord for being careful. Things are stirring in the city.”
Daisy’s hands worked faster, the ache in her arms dulled by adrenaline. She thought about the stories she’d heard growing up, about nobles who hoarded magic like water, about monsters kept alive to bleed for the next spell. It all sounded stupid and impossible, until you saw the wall and the crops and the way the land bent itself for the ones who could pay.
She finished the last pot and leaned against the counter, eyes heavy. The innkeeper’s wife found her that way.
“You look dead on your feet,” the woman said.
“Long day,” Daisy admitted.
A grunt. “Come on. I’ll show you where you can sleep.”
The woman led Daisy up a narrow stairwell, past a door that rattled with snores, up to a cramped attic under the roof. There was nothing but a cot and a faded blanket. Daisy took it anyway, grateful.
The woman paused in the doorway. “Don’t steal anything,” she said, but her tone was soft.
Daisy nodded. “I won’t.”
The door closed. Daisy lay on the cot, stared at the ceiling, and tried to make sense of the rumors and the facts. Power didn’t come from nowhere. Someone always paid.
Her hands throbbed, skin split and raw from the soap. She flexed them, watched the pale lines of the spiral birthmark pulse in the half-light. Blood remembers, her mother’s voice said, soft and cold.
Daisy let her eyes close. In the darkness, she saw cages within cages, each holding something wild. The more she tried to forget, the clearer the vision became.