Page 126 of Spar of Hearts

Both men took a step back. Anya sat and kicked at her ear in a scratching frenzy.

“Will my identity be enough, gentlemen?” he said with a confident smile.

The sentries murmured between each other. Roderick probably couldn’t hear, but Anya caught the hardest syllables, filling in the gaps by reading their lips.

“He…looks…”

“But they said she…wolf eyes…claws…human…”

“Nonsense anyway…Henrik…thinks…”

The first guard nodded hurriedly, stepping even further back. “Go ahead. But go straight to the herbalist.”

After a few more dramatic itches, Anya rose to all fours. We will, trust me. I can’t take much more of this, she whimpered to complete the pathetic show. Though she wasn’t sure they could understand her.

“Where to first?” Roderick whispered, slumping his head forward to be a little closer to her height as he spoke.

The guard’s droning cadence faded behind them as they passed under the inner portcullis and into the crowds.

Weres and Elves filtered in and out of the colorful shops, so unlike the cold castle that loomed above. New smells rushed into Anya’s senses: cut flowers and hops, stewed berries. She even relished the more mundane: iron, hay, burning coal. After the past few days, it was plain to see that, at its heart, Aquillas and Valeria were one and the same. From the sprinkling of magic throughout the streets in the form of banners hovering, an Elf playing a trio of instruments by himself, and even a tiny hippogriff chasing a stick that would throw itself after it was dropped, to the tiniest things, like the way the folk interacted with one another. There were couples of every species and sex, and no one batted an eye.

But Valeria wasn’t always that way.

Anya had studied Valerian history more intensely than any other subject. When the humans came, driven from their homeland by famine, they had appeared nigh empty-handed. But famine could not kill culture. Over the years, they trapped farmers in cycles of inescapable poverty, the dukes warred against each other, frowned upon lovers of the same sex, even contracted their daughters into marriages for political or financial benefit. And while the Weres, Elves, and Vampires of Valeria pushed back, the Aquillans didn’t wait around to see it.

Or help.

Now, such antiquated traditions were the minority among Valerians. They weren’t perfect, and maybe they never would be, but it was nothing worth closing off an entire kingdom to ward against. The influence of the Aquillans could be just the thing to wash away the remainder.

So she was going to show them exactly what kind of people they are.

No hiding.

No masks.

“We need masks,” Roderick said.

Anya stared up at the job board just inside the doors of the Pudgy Seagull tavern. Patrons clamored around them, with the dinner rush in full swing. Tap after tap of wooden flagons and the gentle hiss of foaming ale filled her ears.

Two posters were nailed up side by side:

Messenger hawks traveled faster than a dragon, apparently.

“PAY OR GET OUT!” a haughty voice boomed, making Anya’s hackles jump. She whirled her head to the back of the tavern hall, where the barkeep was twirling a surprisingly menacing-looking wet flour sack towel, snapping it at a group of Weres, both biped and wolf forms. Pitiful yipes and a few bouncing coins followed, fading out the back door.

“THIS AIN’T ENOUGH, YOU WELPS!”

Roderick and Anya stared at the, quite literally, barking-mad woman as she picked up the scattered coins.

Roderick made an appreciative, audible mhm mhm. “Let’s go talk to her.” His voice lilted up in sarcasm, but it wasn’t a half bad idea. The woman was so enraged, she was hardly able to keep her shift at bay as she returned to the bar. She shoved her fist into a mug, then cracked it as her hand pulsed with a flash of gray fur and claws. The woman would hardly think twice about a wolf and a red-haired man—and if that truly wasn’t enough for the Weres’ tab, surely she wouldn’t turn her nose up at a few copper.

Yes. Let’s, Anya said, claws scraping on the plank floor as she padded toward the woman. She’s perfect.

Roderick stammered, “I-it was a joke! Where are you going?”

She was too close to explain now. And quite honestly, still wasn’t one hundred percent sure who could hear her and who couldn’t. Or when. Or how. But her instincts were telling her this was the way to go. And after the show Roderick put on at the gate, she was sure he’d improvise well.

“Whaddya want,” the woman droned. She was an older Were, with her hair held back by a single black braid.