Chapter 4: buying everyone a drink

Soren inhaled the fresh air of Dovelan, savoring the scent of pine and the mild bite of the autumn day that not even the smells of a city could disguise. The combination of the fading twilight sky and bright torches cast the stable yard in front of him in a variety of shadows ranging from mauve to dark gray. He tossed the reins of his borrowed mount at the stable boy, pressed a silver coin into the boy’s palm in thanks, and made his way into the city’s premier tavern. 

He waved a peculiarly shaped wooden token at the buxom barmaid whose brown hair curled around her head in a braided crown. “I was told if I presented this to you, I’d get my deposit back for the horse.” 

“Aye, that you will. Would you like anything else?” 

“A meal and a drink. It’s been a long day.” Soren sat on an empty bar stool and looked around. The wood of the exposed oak beams, long bar, and floor of the tavern gleamed in the firelight, speaking volumes as to the care their owner levied into polishing and cleaning them. The walls were bare except for two paintings of epic scenes; one of a royal boar hunt and the other of a ship tossed in the middle of a storm. At the second, he snorted and took another drink from his tankard before turning his attention back to the bar. 

A bartender had replaced the barmaid. He was a bear of a man, with gray and white hairs sprinkled through the dark beard and mustache that covered most of his face. “You don’t think much of our painting? A master craftsman in the artists’s guild made it for us. He said he took inspiration from a storm on one of his travels.” 

“It’s very well done, just rather ironic for me, I think.” 

“You’re from a coastal town?” 

“No, I grew up in Dovelan but spent the past several years at sea. Fairly recently, I decided the life wasn’t for me anymore and came back home to settle down.” 

The bartender nodded as he slid a hefty bowl of stew and a thick slice of bread across the bar. A group of patrons entered the tavern, and the bartender went to serve them, leaving Soren with his stew, bread, and beer. 

It had been years since Soren was last in Dovelan, and he’d worried that the memories of Dovea’s capital city wouldn’t hold up to the reality, a fear which he’d so far been glad to find unfounded. When he was a sapling boy of sixteen his father, the high general of Dovea’s armies, arranged for him to be apprenticed to a ship’s captain who was based out of the southern kingdom of Vintreal, home to the best seaports and harbors in all the surrounding kingdoms. The news had come as a shock to Soren, who’d always assumed he would follow in his father’s footsteps and enter the military. 

There had been several fights between the two of them, but in the end, his father won, and Soren found himself shipped off to find his fortune on the sea. His master was an honest man, but he didn’t give Soren any quarter or slack as a nobleman’s son. He expected hard work, blood, sweat, and tears, and Soren gave them in equal and abundant measure. In return, the grizzled captain taught him everything he knew and then, as Soren grew, arranged for another captain to hire him so he could continue his education. For over ten years, Soren worked his way up from cabin boy to first mate. Then, while on a long journey, tragedy struck and the ship’s captain died from a lingering illness, leaving Soren to take care of the ship and crew as they finished their merchant run. When they’d finally returned to safe harbor, he’d received an official promotion to captain and been offered the use of the ship. 

Despite his long tenure at sea, it never called to him like it had his friends and fellow sailors. No, Soren fell asleep every night longing to hear the hooting of owls and whisper of the wind in the leaves instead of the cry of seagulls and rolling waves. After two extremely profitable voyages as captain, he decided it was time to return home.  

Home. The term felt entirely foreign to Soren. His mother died when he was still an infant, and his father never remarried. Their house in Dovelan was always clean, and he never lacked for anything in the way of clothes or food, but General Kierson never seemed to know what to do with his son besides keep him busy. To fill his time, Soren spent much of his childhood working with various tutors on every subject his father could think of that might come in handy. He spoke four languages fluently, excelled in history, math, science, and literature, could fight with the sword, dagger, axe, spear, or bow from both horseback and on foot, and was well versed in the fine arts of dancing and making conversation with women of all walks of life, from the lowliest sunburnt shepherdess to the finest ladies in Dovea’s court. 

No, his ‘home’ ran more like a military academy with a class size of one. The only truly bright spot in his childhood occurred when his father would take him to the castle. While the general spent the day talking strategy with King Evert, Soren was allowed to socialize with Queen Elvira and Princess Annalise. 

 At the thought of the young princess, his heart skipped a beat. Two years younger than he, on the day he left Dovelan Annalise was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and none had rivaled her in his time abroad. Her hair was like golden wheat, her blue eyes like a cloudless summer day, and her laugh like the trickling of a merry brook. As they’d grown from children into teenagers, they’d talked of literature and politics and art. She’d told him about her lessons in strategy, economics, and deportment, and he’d instructed her in the basics of how to use a sword. She was his best friend, and she’d enchanted him for as long as he could remember. 

It was for her that he’d returned. 

“Did you hear about what happened in the market? Nasty business. The poor princess, first the curse, now having to deal with this. It’s a wonder she ever leaves the castle at all.” 

Soren’s ears perked up, and he turned to look further down the bar where several men were talking. From their fine clothes and fat purses, he guessed they were successful merchants stopping by the tavern for their evening meal. 

“I’m from Dovelan but only recently returned to the area after some time abroad; can you tell me what happened?” he asked casually. 

One merchant, a broad man in a green tunic whose straight brown hair fell to the tops of his ears, was the first to answer. “From time to time the princess comes down to donate goods from the castle and she was in the market today. Some evildoer apparently knew she would be there and attacked her.” 

“Is she okay? Was he stopped?” 

“Aye, from what I heard she touched him and her curse took effect.” 

The two other men both tapped their shoulders, then placed their palms together—a common gesture of prayer used to ask the Goddess for mercy. 

“Tell me about her curse.” Soren got the attention of the bartender and motioned for him to fill up the merchant’s cups. 

“You haven’t heard about her curse? Where did you say you’re from again?” the merchant asked. 

“I’ve been away at sea for several years. We heard rumors of the Dovean princess being cursed, but it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s exaggeration when you’re in the company of rowdy sailors.” 

“Whatever you heard, it’s real. The poor girl’s curse showed up not long after Queen Elvira’s death, Goddess rest her soul. Any time she touches someone, they die a terrible, painful death. It starts as a red rash, then the skin turns purple, and then their veins turn black.”

“How many people has this curse killed?” 

“Besides those who tried to cure her and failed miserably, three; four if you count the little prince.” 

Soren’s eyebrows shot up as high as they could physically go. “She had a little brother?” 

“Not on purpose. One of the King’s concubines got pregnant a few years ago. Everything was going along real nicely, then she fell ill and lost the baby. She accused Princess Annalise of coughing on her and causing her to take ill, and the king ordered that she start wearing a mask.” The merchant shrugged and drained his glass, then took a bite of bread. He continued speaking even as he chewed, crumbs spraying everywhere. “If you listen to the rumors, the concubine was just looking for someone to blame for her losing the child. No one ever got sick before, and they’ve not been sick since, but the princess still wears a mask that covers her face all the same.” 

“It sounds like an awful way to live.” 

“You’ve got that right. I don’t envy her one bit, and I don’t know that I’d wish her fate on the daughter of my worst enemy.” 

“She still holds up well, all things considered. Our princess is a strong one, that she is,” the bartender added. He’d sidled up to the conversation as he dried a freshly washed tankard. 

“Care to elaborate on that, friend?” Soren asked as he pushed a silver coin across the bar top. 

“Not much else to say. She’s cursed, but she still comes down twice a month to drop off goods from the castle around town. Today she went to the healer’s and weaver’s guilds, and stopped by the market to talk to some greedy merchants. Those slime thought they could overcharge the guild since the Crown was fronting part of the cost of wool in exchange for the apprentices weaving blankets to give to the poor. Rumor is that Princess Annalise swiftly disabused them of that notion.” The bartender glared at the merchants, who studiously ignored him. “If it hadn’t been for them, she’d never have been in the market to begin with.” 

“Didn’t she have guards?” 

“They were helping with a disturbance—I heard some goats and chickens got loose. It’s bad enough the princess was cursed, but now to have to worry about strange men trying to cut her limbs off so they can take her cursed powers? It’s terrible business, one I hope the king puts a stop to. Of all the people to be cursed, I don’t see why it had to happen to one like her. I’ve had a lot of visitors here, some from foreign and far-away lands, and none of them sound like they have royalty who care a carrot about their people. No, curse or not, the princess has a heart as golden as her hair, and we’re Goddess-blessed to have her.” The bartender turned away and set down the tankard, and Soren got the distinct impression that the man may have spoken more words in the intervening few minutes than he had all week. 

After another hour in the tavern, in which Soren picked up as much of the local gossip and news as he could, he settled his tab, donned his cloak, and headed back out into the night.