Mortal Fantasy

✴｜chapter twenty-seven

When I emerge onto the main kingdom road, I catch sight of the tavern almost immediately, a broad silhouette in the early evening. At least a dozen men clamor outside, recognizably mine workers from their bemired clothes and blackened hands. Upon leaving the palace, I had chosen to don a more discreet cloak than the sapphire one I'd worn the last time I had been to see Meir, so they take little notice of me as I walk along the shadowed alley between the tavern and the butcher's shop, slipping in through the back door used by the workers to travel to and from the grapefields. The door closes with a soft thump into its frame—it is only then that the faint sound of a voice reaches my ears.

"... they raided the storage houses last week. We'll have to move the weapons someplace else."

I stop and flatten my back against the wall blocking the backroom from my sight. It has been long repurposed as a wine cellar to remove the inconvenience of traversing the extensive escalier, but now it is lit from within with the glow of a torch, the firelight ebbing shadows along the walls. No more than a handful of people should be in the cellar at a time—from the shift of feet and soft murmurs, I can tell that there is an entire gathering taking place here. What could they possibly be doing?

"No," comes another voice, and this time it is familiar. "They'll expect that. Restock the same storage house but conceal the weaponry somewhere else. You said that there was an unused attic in that barn, didn't you? Hide the weapons up there."

Meir. I suppress the urge to approach him, and instead resolve to stay hidden. It seems as if they are a branch of the resistance, having chosen the wine cellar as an inconspicuous meeting place, but I need to be certain before I reveal myself. After all, running away from the palace isn't a thing to be openly discussed, lest I want gossip of an escaped concubine to spread among all of the common kingdom.

"Fine." This time the voice is distinctly feminine. Her tone is authoritative and tenacious, betraying that she must be of a high rank among them. "We'll send out a patrol tomorrow dawn to fix it. It's growing late, and all of you should be getting back home to attend to your wives and children. I trust that everyone knows where next we will be meeting."

They must alter the time and location of their gatherings so as not to pique the suspicion of the golden blooded guards, or avoid being sold out by a traitor. It is uncannily clever—some part of me feels a twinge of jealousy at having been excluded from their meetings. Before I had left for the palace, the resistance had been an unorganized and unruly faction—now they are coordinated and fluid, armed and ready to strike at a moment's call.

I am startled out of my reminiscence by the sound of footsteps coming toward me. I yank the hood of my cloak down over my face just as the men leaving spot me by the door, and immediately I am surrounded, pinned into the corner by half a dozen resistance fighters.

One of them spits a curse and unsheathes a short blade from the belt slung around his waist. "Some idiot forgot to lock the door again, damn it!"

"Wait," I blurt, holding out my hands. How can I get out of this without showing my face? "It's alright, I'm—I'm one of you."

"Prove it," another one growls, gripping his own knife menacingly, "so that I don't slit your throat right here and now."

"What's all the commotion?" Meir comes into the back hall, a frown marring his face. He must perceive my figure through the cloak, because recognition lights across his features and he pushes through the men, pulling me behind him.

"Don't hurt her," he cautions, raising a hand. "She's with me."

One of the members of the resistance scowls at us incredulously. "You know her?"