Heir of Thunder (Stormbourne Chronicles Book 1) by Karissa Laurel Read Free Book Online Page A

Gideon had warned me to keep my presence covert. Can’t very well
do that thundering into town square, can I?
    “C’mon girl.” I stroked her neck and eased our pace into a
gentle walk. “Just a little bit further. Then, I promise, we’ll both get some
rest.”

Chapter 5
     
    A bedraggled wagon, driven by a haggard old man, passed me
on the road leading to town. He held the reins of two moth-eaten drovers who
plodded along in unhurried determination. The old man tugged the edge of his
broad-brimmed hat in greeting.
    I smiled back, but then ducked my head to keep my features
hidden. Once Nonnie and I passed the wagon, I removed my cloak and tucked it
away in my saddlebag. At home, the villagers recognized my cloak almost before
they recognized me, and I never went without it except on the hottest days. If
anyone were on the lookout for me, the cloak would have made an obvious
descriptor.
    The trip into town took longer than I’d estimated. By the
time we reached the first outlying homes, the day had passed into late
afternoon. I asked a woman carrying a basket of folded laundry for directions
to The Silver Goose. She pointed to one of the cross streets near the entrance
to town and told me to look for a large, whitewashed building with black
shutters and a goose shaped shingle hanging in the front yard.
    The inn was handsome, if not a little worn around its edges.
I refrained from thorough scrutiny because, compared to another night on the
cold, hard ground, this place looked fit for a princess, such as myself. After
tying Nonnie to a hitching post, I followed my nose to the small dining room on
the ground floor.
    A sour aroma, pungent scents from proofing dough and spilt
beer, greeted me even before I opened the door. The lesser fragrance of
roasting beef complimented the yeasty smell, and my stomach grumbled. A stout,
bald man wiped tables while an equally solid but taller woman crossed the room
toward me. A white kerchief covered her graying hair, but she carried a heavy
wooden tankard in each hand as if they weighed no more than teacups. She set
the drinks in front of two men who nodded and mumbled thanks.
    I had never procured the services of an inn, or ordered food
in a public place before. I fingered the coins in my pocket and waited for
inspiration on how to proceed. I didn’t have to wait long.
    The serving woman noticed me standing in the doorway and
waved in my direction. “Well, young miss. What can I get for you? Or are you
content to stand there gaping at us from the doorway. The benches are hard, but
they’re more comfortable than standing while you eat, and I dare say you look
famished.”
    “Yes ma’am, I am,” I said, stepping further into the room.
    The woman approached and stopped before me, close enough to
reveal eyes as blue as the aquamarine ring Father had given me for my sixteenth
birthday. A ring I’d probably never see again as it was still sitting in a
jewelry box in my room at Fallstaff… or, more likely, laying in a pile of ash
and rubble.
    “We’ve got a bit of venison stew that should stick to your
bones,” she said, “and you look skinny enough to need it. There’s a batch of
pocket pies just out of the oven, too, if you prefer. Mutton today. It’s all
the butcher had left by the time I got to market.”
    I settled onto a seat at one of the closest tables. It felt
unbelievably good to sit on something still and quiet. “The stew sounds good,
and do you have any cider?”
    “I do, I do. You rest yourself right there, and I’ll bring
you a plate.” She patted my arm in a motherly way and walked away.
    Heavy tables--well scarred but polished to a glossy patina—furnished
the dining room. The baldheaded man had moved into the corner where he swept
his broom over the slate floor and stooped to collect debris in his dustpan. After
a brief glance in my direction, the other two diners ignored me, huddling over
their plates and eating in a way that suggested either the food was