By midday, Pirin found a trail. The thin road of packed mud and snow wound through the woods, leading southeast—as best as he could tell. It wasn’t big enough to fit a carriage, or even a horse and rider, and that was perfect. There were many trails through the Aerdian woods. If any were patrolled, it wouldn’t be this one.

And now that they were on a trail, he wouldn’t have to agonize over every step to make sure they didn’t fall into a snow-filled gully or an iced-over river. Their progress was much quicker.

Still, it didn’t stop him from watching the shifting shadows. Any one of them could be a gobbart or a spy of some sort. He made sure to keep his hood up and stay close to Gray.

By the time the sky turned orange and the sun began to set, they came upon a small, decrepit road sign that listed nearby cities and their directions. If they turned left and walked another mile and a half, they’d reach Rootmine.

It was twilight when Pirin first caught a glimpse of the city outskirts. Small shacks lined the path. They were made of interwoven and intertwined branches, and they all had peaked roofs. The orange light spilling from their windows was enough to illuminate the trail. Nearby, a river rushed by, so wide that it didn’t freeze over completely in the winter.

“Almost there,” he whispered to Gray.

Up ahead, an enormous cave opened up in the side of a hill. If he had to guess, it was nearly a hundred times taller than the cave they had hidden in last night. Thick roots lined its walls—courtesy of the ancient, rotten stump of a titantree above.

The stump was nearly fifty paces wide, and its roots dug deep into the ground, forming the shape of the cave. Houses hung off them, either suspended from chains or nailed into the white almost-wood.

“And that’d be Rootmine,” he muttered. He didn’t know for sure why it was called that, but he could guess. Some of the roots still leaked a bright orange sap out of them, and given time, it would form into ambersteel.

Pirin kept his gaze down for what little remained of the journey. Already, elves crowded the trails, and though they wouldn’t know his face, he didn’t want to take any risks. And if he showed his hair, they’d understand what it meant.

There wasn’t anything different about the Aerdian elves except for the colours they wore—orange and yellow robes, to mimic the colour of autumn leaves. Some rode on horses, others walked past with mining equipment in hand.

But here, there weren’t just elves. A few men, scattered patches of dwarves, some harpy street performers, a vulpine, and many others. Rootmine was a somewhat large city, and that meant there would be travellers from distant lands. If he looked in the right places, he suspected he’d find that some of those travellers were actually smugglers.

Pirin and Gray stepped onto a wooden walkway that wound up past the storefronts and up into the cave. Some of the structures inside were larger, with two or three storeys. Colourful lumawhale oil signs glimmered on their eaves and smoke seeped out of their chimneys. He had to keep himself from pulling down his hood and gazing around in awe. It was so…different.

“We need a tavern or an inn of some sort—a place where we can find transport,” Pirin whispered, more for the benefit of himself than for Gray. “An experienced smuggler would probably be the best, but anyone willing to brave the rivers would do.”

Whenever they passed somebody, Pirin tried to ask where he could find bargemen or riverboat captains for hire. At best, the passersby grunted and ignored him. At worst, they snapped obscenities at him. Men, elves, other races—it didn’t matter who. Here, they were all gruff.

Finally, Pirin encountered a middle-aged elven woman, who pointed up the walkway toward a wooden plaza. It hung from the ceiling, suspended by chains. “On the other side of that plaza,” she said, leaning closer. “Centreroot Inn, it’s called. It’s a speakeasy.”

Pirin and Gray passed through the plaza. Here, there were four Aerdian soldiers waiting in the corner, all clad in flowing ambersteel armour. They regarded Pirin suspiciously, but they didn’t move to stop him. He tugged his fur cloak tighter, as if it might shield him from their gazes.

Across the plaza, in a far corner, was a two-story building with a glowing blue sign. In bold letters, it read: Centreroot Inn. Its windows were boarded up, but there were cracks that let out just a little light. Pirin saw silhouettes of people sitting at tables, smoking pipes and talking. It would do the trick.

Gray, however, couldn’t fit inside. Pirin wrapped one of her saddle’s stirrups around a post, then whispered, “Don’t let anyone take you.” She wouldn’t understand the instruction, but it made him feel better to say it.

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He stepped back from the post, brushing his hands off. Something bumped against his back. He turned around. A tall man—not an elf—with a bright red scarf and a tattered coat stood behind him. The man snapped, “Watch yourself, boy.”

Pirin snorted, but for good measure, he lowered his hand until, beneath his cloak, his fingers brushed the pommel of his sword.

The man shook his head, then stepped back and away.

Pirin turned back to the inn’s door and tapped on it, keeping his head low and hood drawn. A slit opened, and a pair of accusing eyes glared out at him. “Who is it?”

“A thirsty traveller,” Pirin said. “I have silver.”

“Then you’re welcome here—unless you cause a ruckus. Don’t go saying I didn’t warn you.”

The door swung open. A shrivelled, elderly elf held it open. As soon as Pirin passed, the elf slammed it shut behind him.

It was warm inside, and immediately, Pirin pulled off his cloak—it would be better just folded over his arm, and he still had his coat’s hood to hide his hair.

He set off through the inn. Every time he shifted his gaze, he made sure to also take a glance out the cracks in the windows at Gray. Aerdia had many more people than Sirdia, and there would be plenty who ignored the honour of the elves. He wasn’t sure whether he could trust that someone wouldn’t steal Gray.

But at least for now, she couldn’t fly. It would be like trying to steal a wagon without a wheel.

Lanterns with green stained glass windows lit the tavern, which cast a sickly glow around the entire building. Tables lined the walls, and a bar hid in the corner, sheltered by curtains and nets. People were everywhere, but he also couldn’t ignore the absurd sights and trinkets. It was definitely a speakeasy.

A mass of smoke swirled near the bar. It simmered out of a piece of carved wood. Manifested flame-aspect Essence powered its runes, glowing orange and manipulating the smoke into illusions. Sometimes the Smokes told stories, sometimes they played newsreels, and sometimes they were just moving statues. This one’s smoke manifested in the three-dimensional image of an elven woman playing a harp. The strings she plucked didn’t resemble the upbeat music twanging through the tavern.

Only wizards could create a device like that—special wizards, who used the Path of the Burning Peacock to create beautiful, artistic displays with runes.

Pirin clasped his hands together and shook his head. He wasn’t here to sightsee. He had to find a smuggler who was brave enough (or drunk enough) to take them to Tallas Brannul. In Aerdia, alcohol was outlawed, hence the need for a speakeasy. And if Pirin wanted to find a smuggler, there was no better place to start searching than here.

He walked to a table surrounded by elves. They pounded their mugs down on the wood and laughed. Some of them wore Aerdian navy uniforms—a yellow coat with an ambersteel circlet atop their heads. They wouldn’t help.

He moved to the next table, where a group of dirty men gambled with hexagonal playing cards. Pirin leaned forwards and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sirs, but I’m looking for passage.” He made sure to keep his voice low. Anyone might hear, and the last thing he wanted was attention. “Do any of you have a riverboat or a barge?”

“Where’re you goin’, and how much are you gonna pay?” asked one of the men.

“I need to get to the Library of Tallus-Brannul—”

“Hah, forget it!” the man exclaimed.

“I can pay—”

“Leave us alone before you make a scene, why dontchya?”

Pirin backed away from the table and stuffed his hands in his pocket. For a moment, he contemplated placing thoughts in their minds with the Whisper Hitch, but he was out in the open. If he reached out and gathered up the man’s mind in his hand, he’d reveal himself to everyone around before he could even donate a thought or two.

There weren’t many dark corners to hide in and use his magic, but even if found a place, he was too far away from the men. And there was no telling how his magic would backfire. A puff of blue sparks, or maybe he’d even make himself yelp out of shock. It’d draw eyes.

He moved on to the next table. There, he found a dwarf drinking with an ostal man. The ostal was the most curious-looking of the pair—they were a race from far across the sea, with sickly pale skin and straight horns sticking up from the sides of their head.

Pirin asked, “Do either of you own a ship?”

“What’s it to you?” the dwarf demanded, ale-foam shaking in his beard. The ostal met Pirin’s gaze as well, his sallow eyes accusatory.

Pirin braced himself. “I’m looking for passage to Tallas-Brannul—”

“Yeah, right.” The dwarf scoffed. “You’d be better off asking me to cough up a hunk of gold.”

Pirin walked to a few more tables. Most people laughed at him. He tried offering them silver, and they threw it back at him. It was always, “That lake’s a death trap,” or “The Library’s too well guarded,” or “I can’t smuggle you and a gnatsnapper past the river checkpoints. Rum, sure. An elf and his overgrown chicken? No chance.”

That last one might have been a…bit specific.

Pirin sighed. He glanced around once more. Everyone had gone back to talking to one another as if he’d never even been there.

For a moment, he considered stealing a ship for himself. He could put its guards to sleep then sail it away. But there was no chance of him making it past the river checkpoints without the help of a proper smuggler.

For a moment, Pirin took a seat at an empty table. He didn’t know what else to do, but he wasn’t giving up. Just…he needed to think of a plan.

He dropped his arms down on the table, then rested his head on his forearms. He glanced around, searching for anyone who he hadn’t spoken to. The only people who he hadn’t yet talked to were a shady pair in the corner opposite to the bar. An ostal and a bulky dragonfolk. No one else spoke to them. No one even looked at them. And, if he judged the contents of their mugs correctly, they had chosen the cheapest ale the speakeasy had to offer.

They might just be desperate enough…

This was his best chance. He had to take it.