Anwen of Primewood

by Shari L. Tapscott

  But whether he likes it or not, he looks good.

  I stare at him a little too long, and a smirk plays on his face. I look away quickly, trying not to grin.

  “Go that way,” Rosie says once she and Irving remember we exist. “There’s an open grassy area where we usually set up camp.”

  Irving steers the cart toward the left, following Rosie’s instructions. As we ride, I keep my eyes peeled for Dimitri. The closer to Lenrook we’ve traveled, the more my stomach has tightened with knots.

  I don’t know what I’ll do when I see Dimitri again. How will I react? The scene I’ve played over and over in my mind doesn’t hold the appeal it once did. Early in my journey, I had imagined Dimitri lighting up with joy as soon as he saw me. Then he would fall to his knees, give me back the changeling stone, and beg me for forgiveness. And just like that, we’d be together again.

  I fidget with my reins and glance at Galinor. For now, I push the thoughts aside.

  The other troupes barely spare us a glance as we make our way through them. Those who do notice us are set at ease by Rosie’s calls of gypsy greetings. Irving parks the cart, and the rest of us climb down from our horses, sore and tired from the ride.

  Marigold looks about, nervous. I turn to see what she’s staring at. A small crowd of children has gathered, waiting for us to entertain them.

  “What do we do?” she asks me under her breath.

  “Don’t ask me to dance,” I say. “That hasn’t gone well.”

  Rosie smiles wide when she sees the children. She opens her arms in a flourish and bends in a deep bow. “Come to hear Rosalina play, have you?”

  The boys stare at her, their eyes wide. The little girl watches her with awe.

  Rosie climbs into the gypsy cart and retrieves her lute. “I usually only play for kings and queens,” she says. “But I can see you are very special.” She winks at them, and then her fingers strum against the instrument.

  Of course, she has a beautiful voice as well. I turn away, letting Rosie entertain the children and the few adults that have gathered. Once in the cart, I’m tempted to throw myself on the bed and take a nap. I’m not sure if I’m exhausted from the ride or if it’s the thought of seeing Dimitri again. Danver already sleeps on the bed. I scratch behind his ears, and he stretches.

  Danver loves the gypsy cart.

  Marigold enters and shuts the door behind her. “Do you think anyone would be entertained by a lecture about the migratory pattern of southern kingdom birds?” she asks.

  “I don’t think so.” I laugh. “Some gypsies are only artisans, aren’t they? Perhaps you could sit outside and stitch something?”

  Her lips tip up. “What will the men do?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well.” She gives me her stern look and sets her hands on her hips. “Then you should get out there and find Dimitri so we can go home.”

  Point taken.

  I step outside the cart. To my surprise, Irving has joined Rosie. He twirls her as she plays, and somehow the two manage to make an impromptu dance that looks rehearsed. Not to be left out, Bran and Dristan sing along with Rosie, picking up the song quickly.

  Galinor leans against a tree. With crossed arms, he watches them all, a scowl playing over his features. I grab his wrist as I pass, pulling him with me. Perhaps I’m a coward, but I don’t want to find Dimitri alone.

  “What does he look like?” Galinor asks as we prowl through the crowds, looking for my target.

  “Dark hair, dark eyes, average height,” I answer. “Acrobatic build.”

  Galinor frowns. “So like every gypsy man here?”

  “That’s right.”

  I loop my arm through his as we continue on. The festival is in full swing, and I can’t believe the amount of entertainers and merchants who have flocked here for the event. We weave through all the shops and cottages, and then make our way through the square several times. Finally, we walk the perimeter of the village.

  Dimitri and his troupe are nowhere to be seen.

  “They must be here,” I say, losing hope. “The gypsy woman said…”

  I watch the festivities, not feeling festive at all.

  Galinor says softly, “Do you think she may have lied to you?”

  My throat closes up and tears prick my eyes. “Why would she?”

  Instead of answering, Galinor wraps his arm around my shoulders, guiding me back to our gypsy cart.

  Evening is falling, and there’s a chill in the air. Villagers and gypsies alike have started pine wood fires in cooking pits, and the rich smell of smoke welcomes us. The fires’ glow is pleasant in the twilight, and I pick up our pace, hoping our party has started one as well.

  We near our cart. Not only is there a fire, but we have visitors. Five gypsies sit with our friends, talking and laughing. Galinor and I hurry to them.

  “Dimitri was never here,” a woman with a thick accent says, her back to me. Her hair is glossy and full, and it falls down her back in perfect black waves. “We had a parting of ways in Primewood.”

  Rosie is completely at ease, turning a trio of grouses over a spit. “Why?”

  My stomach growls at the savory aroma. Suddenly I’m starving.

  “You know Dimitri.” The woman waves her hand. “He’s entertaining, but he can be cruel.”

  Rosie’s eyes flicker to us, and she gives us a welcoming smile. “What did he do?”

  The woman shakes her head and leans in as if to share a secret. “When we were in Vernow earlier this summer, there was a rumor of a merchant in Primewood with a changeling stone—a man by the name of Baron Thomas Millner.”

  Galinor tenses at my side, and my heart starts to pound. Marigold’s eyes meet mine, and I shake my head so she won’t announce our presence just yet.

  “A changeling stone?” Rosie scoffs, laughing out loud.

  “Dimitri was obsessed. He had to have it,” the woman continues. “We traveled to Primewood. You know how welcoming that kingdom is to our people—we made very little along the way. Once we arrived, Dimitri visited the town every day nosing around for information.”

  Galinor wraps his arm tighter around me.

  “He found out the merchant had a daughter. We bided our time, and eventually the girl came into town. Dimitri befriended her—made her fall in love with him. Eventually he convinced her to steal her father’s stone.”

  Tiny black dots begin to cloud my vision. This woman is wrong. It wasn’t like that.

  “Poor thing,” she says, shaking her head. “She ran away with him, joined our troupe. He behaved so strangely, many of us were convinced he was in love with her. She was a pretty thing—curly wheat-blond hair, large eyes.”

  Rosie’s gaze flicks to me, and her eyebrows knit. “What happened?”

  The woman shrugs. “The girl thought they would be married. Dimitri decided she was more trouble than she was worth. We left her in the woods.”

  The man next to her shifts forward. “Dimitri even took her horse.”

  “He couldn’t take the little fox, remember?” The woman pokes her friend in the side, laughing. She turns back to Rosie. “The girl had a strange little pet fox. Dimitri thought he’d make a funny act for the children. He tried to take him, but the animal bit him—sliced his hand good.”

  He tried to take my Danver.

  I begin to tremble—I don’t think I’ve ever been this livid.

  The man wraps his arm around the woman’s waist. “We parted ways in Estlebrook. Dimitri has done some shady things, but I’ve never been so disgusted with him. That poor girl. I often wonder if she’s all right.”

  “She’s managing,” I say from behind them.

  They turn, startled by my voice. The woman’s eyes widen with recognition, mirroring my own. She is the woman from the fire, and next to her—yes, it’s the man whose lap she sat on. I don’t recognize the other three, but from the way they look at me, they apparently know who I am.

  Rosie’s eyes narrow as sh
e tries to work out this story with the one Irving has fed her.

  “How did you get here?” the woman asks.

  “It doesn’t matter.” I wave my hand. “Can you tell me where Dimitri is?”

  She gives me a look of pity. “Darling, you’re better off without him.” Her eyes drift to Galinor. She smirks at me and then she purrs, “Much better off.”

  I find a seat next to Marigold. Galinor sits on my other side. Sparks from the fire fly into the ever-darkening sky, and I watch them for a few moments before I speak. “I don’t want him.”

  After hearing the story, I wholeheartedly mean it.

  “I want my changeling stone back.”

  The gypsy man shakes his head. “He’ll never part with it.”

  Galinor’s hand slides into my own, offering comfort. “He won’t have a choice.” His voice is cold and deadly, and I would not want to be Dimitri for anything in the world.

  The woman sizes Galinor up—a task she seems to be relishing. “He is going to Triblue.”

  Dristan and Bran have been listening quietly, both whittling away at scrap tinder, but now they look up, intrigued.

  Bran looks at Dristan. “He’s taking them to the End-of-Summer Festival in Saltwreath.”

  Dristan nods.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  I never attended festivals while traveling with father. There was always a schedule to keep, somewhere more important to be.

  Bran turns his attention to me. “It’s a huge festival our family puts on before autumn. Many ships return for winter and won’t sail again until spring.

  I wait to see if anyone has caught Bran’s slip that announced his lineage. If they have, they don’t call him on it.

  “I thought Triblue was warm year round,” Galinor says, hurrying past the mistake, hoping no one takes too long to think about it.

  “It is, but the weather out at sea is turbulent and unpredictable in autumn and winter.”

  Galinor turns to the gypsies. “How long will it take to travel from here to Triblue?”

  The woman looks at a man sitting farther from her, waiting for his opinion.

  “A fortnight,” the man answers as he squints with thought. “Give or take a few days.”

  I groan silently and rest my head on my knees. I’m never going to find Dimitri.

  “Anwen,” Bran says. “It’s fine. The festival won’t begin until the last week of summer. We still have three weeks.”

  Dristan nods in agreement.

  I glance at Marigold. She won’t want to travel that far—not when we’ve come this far already and found nothing. What if this is another wild goose chase?

  “There was a woman at the festival in Crayhope,” I say. “A fortune teller. She told me Dimitri came to Lenrook. Why would she lie to me?”

  “Many are still loyal to the royal family.” The woman tosses her hair over her shoulder. “We may not have land, but we are a people. Dimitri is still our crown-prince.”

  “Then why do you help us? How can I trust you?”

  The woman sighs and stretches her sandaled feet toward the fire. “Are we still traveling with Dimitri?”

  “No.”

  She smiles. “Then there is your answer.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Truth by Firelight

  Rosie looks right at me, a single eyebrow raised. “Lady Anwen, is it?”

  The fire is low; only embers remain. They shift from red to black and then back again. The night is well into the wee hours of the morning, and our visitors have left for their own tents and wagons. Our party is finally alone.

  Rosie blows steam from a cup of tea and waits for my answer.

  I shift on my bench. “Yes.”

  Her eyes move to Bran and Dristan. “Your family puts on the end of summer festival in Triblue?”

  She obviously caught Bran’s slip of the tongue. Bran and Dristan share a glance, but then Bran nods.

  Rosie’s eyes travel over Galinor, and she frowns, thinking. Her gaze then moves to Irving, who is next to her. “Who are you really? How do you fit with a lady, two southern princes, and…?” She eyes the rest of our party. “Who knows what else the rest of you are.”

  Irving looks uncomfortable—not an expression that often graces his face. He shrugs. “I’m Irving of Primewood.”

  Gypsies don’t travel through Primewood often; they usually aren’t well received. It’s not all that surprising that Rosie shakes her head, knowing she’s missing something, but not sure what.

  “Are you all after Dimitri because of what he did to Anwen?” she asks Irving. “Or are you truly after the king’s horse?”

  Irving glances at me, as if he wants me to jump in. Is it my imagination, or does he look worried? When has he cared enough to be worried?

  “It’s all right,” I say. “I’ll explain.”

  I tell her our story—of meeting Irving in Lauramore and dumping cider on Galinor, of searching and finally finding the fairies, and of our horses being stolen.

  She listens intently. Her expression changes little, but her eyes are a window to her disbelief. She turns back to Irving and quietly hisses, “You’re a prince.”

  Irving winces. “I truly do want to find Anwen’s horse.”

  “And you asked me to marry you? What kind of game were you playing, Irving?”

  He looks shocked, and the rest of us stay quiet.

  “It wasn’t a game—”

  “You rush to her honor—” Rosie sharply motions toward me. “And then you do the same thing to me that Dimitri did to her?”

  Irving sets his hand on her arm but she shrugs it off.

  “What was I?” she demands, her voice increasingly shrill. “A lark? An amusement?”

  Irving’s eyes are wide and his mouth works, but he’s unable to form a thought.

  She leans forward, her eyes shining in the dim firelight. “Or did you use me to find Dimitri, Irving?”

  “It’s not like that!” Irving finally says, getting angry now. “I asked you to marry me, and I meant it!”

  Rosie narrows her eyes. “Of course you did. Primewood would welcome a gypsy queen.”

  Irving tosses his hands in the air. “I don’t care what they think! It’s my life—my happiness—not theirs.”

  I believe it’s time to give them some privacy. I stand and the others follow me. Apparently we are all eager to be away from their argument.

  My mind is still so full from what the gypsies have said, I can’t think of Irving’s problems now. I wonder if it’s true? Did Dimitri truly search me out just to obtain the changeling stone? In my heart, I know he did.

  How didn’t I see it sooner?

  Marigold slips into the cart, and I’m about to go in behind her when Galinor stops me with a touch to my shoulder. I pause on the first step and turn in the dark to face him.

  The sounds of late summer hum around us. Crickets chirp in the grass, and a soft breeze blows through the trees. Dristan and Bran have retired to the large tent they are sharing with Galinor, and Irving and Rosie continue to bicker at the campfire around the front of the wagon.

  “I’m sorry, Anwen.” The way he moves his hands when he says the words makes me think he might embrace me, but his arms drop to his side.

  I smile, but there’s no joy behind it. “It’s my fault. I was a fool to trust him.”

  His eyes flash with emotion, and he takes a step forward. “Yes, it was foolish to give him your father’s stone. But why was it foolish to think he loved you?”

  I bite my lip to keep back tears, but my eyes already sting. I look away and shrug. For once I wish he would go away. To have Galinor know how I was used makes me feel pathetic and small.

  I turn back to the door. “Goodnight.”

  “Anwen—”

  I’ll never know what he was about to say, because a blood curdling shriek rings through the night.

  It’s Rosie.

  “Stay here,” Galinor demands before he takes off for the fr
ont of the wagon.

  I cross my arms, fully intending to listen to him this time. Then I hear a low and insistent, feline hiss.

  I race for the campfire. “Pika!”

  The cat is crouched and facing Irving with her back to Rosie. Agitated, her tail whips back and forth. Irving holds his hands up, trying to talk the glasseln down. Rosie has flattened herself next to the cart, and she’s crying.

  Her shriek didn’t only alert our party; other dark figures race to our fire. Judging from the occasional glint of light, they are armed.

  “Pika, no!” I race past the feline’s outstretched wings.

  When she hears my voice, she stops and sits—though she still glares at Irving. One last low hiss escapes her, and then she seems to calm. She leans her head over for me to scratch.

  “What happened?” I demand Irving.

  Before Irving can answer, a nearby man takes aim at Pika with a bow.

  “No!” I scream, and then, without thinking, I lunge in front of the cat.

  The pain is incredible, and I fall to my knees, clutching my thigh. Pandemonium breaks out around me. Galinor takes after the man that shot me. Other gypsies soon attack Galinor. Drawing his sword, Irving joins them. Dristan and Bran, who have come out of the tent to see what the ruckus is about, race in to defend their comrades.

  Pika crouches to leap in the air. She will kill someone.

  “Pika, no,” I gasp. Before someone else can shoot at her, I pull myself up and call for her to follow me.

  She comes, though she pauses several times, looking as if she’s going to join the fray.

  I hold firm to her coat as I drag myself along. Finally we make it to the back of the gypsy cart. I fling the door open and frantically motion her inside. Marigold gasps when she sees me.

  “What’s going on out there?” she demands, and then she sees Pika. “What are you doing?”

  “They’ll kill her!”

  I get behind the cat and shove her inside. She barely fits. Marigold scrambles back on the bed, keeping as far away from the glasseln as she can. Pika eyes the bed, decides it looks more comfortable than the tight fit below, and leaps up to join Marigold.