Goddess Liv Savell (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

Still, she handed over the half-eaten treat and sniffed the warm pastry Etienne had brought. As she spoke, her voice was muffled by sweets. “The man—says the apple— is covered in—caramel. It’s chewy—but I like it.” The vendor, standing right beside them, nodded in agreement, his wrinkled face creased with pleasure. Clearly, he took pride in people enjoying his wares.

She finally swallowed her first bite and dove into the nut-filled pastry. “Oh!” A bit of the treat sprayed from her lips. Meirin laughed, which made more pieces of food speckle Etienne’s travel-worn tunic and brushed away the crumbs with a not-so-apologetic wince.

Etienne put the mouthful of caramel-dipped apple onto his tongue and closed his eyes, sighing with pleasure. The stuff was so rich that it made his jaw ache as he tried to chew it, gobs clinging to his teeth.

Meirin’s unbashful brushing only made him laugh, the sound coming out past caramel and teeth in great gasps until he managed to swallow it. She was a bit of a mess herself, with her hands full of crumbs and a smear of caramel against her cheek. Tentatively, he reached up a hand to wipe it off before pulling away a little too quickly.

“I like it too,” he said, talking about the apple. “It's so sweet!”

Behind them, a woman’s voice called out a sound in a tongue Etienne did not know, cheerful and lively and mingling with the different tunes of the street musicians, though not unpleasantly. Her song had the rhythm of a dance, and it had even the awkward mage tapping a foot. “What do you think’s in there?” he asked, pointing to the doorway the sound originated from.

“Music,” Meirin stated helpfully. But she laughed and stuffed the rest of her pastry in her mouth before grabbing Etienne’s hand and heading towards the sound. The tavern was crowded, but people moved out of their way. Meirin was shorter than most of the patrons, so she found an empty table and stepped onto one of the chairs using Etienne’s shoulder as a brace. He was tall enough to see over the heads of onlookers to a small stage, musicians, and the floor filled with dancers. “We mostly use drums in Mynydd Gwyllt. Drums and flutes.” The musicians gathered had cymbals, a stringed instrument with a hollowed-out center, and something that was much like a flute but made of metal and producing loud tinny sounds. “This is incredible.”

Meirin wasn’t cowed by the press of bodies or the novelty of the scene. She was swaying to the rhythm as she watched the dancers. Their formation implied these dances were less chaotic and free-flowing than the dance he had learned with Enyo but less rigid than the dances of Dailion. Partners clung to one another and swung about in a quick pattern in beats of three, their hands wrapped about each other's waists or necks. Many had tankards of ale or wine, and people were laughing and talking over the music.

The mage swallowed. Meirin looked as though she dearly wanted to join the dancers…

“Would you like to dance?” Etienne could feel his ears reddening. He could see a pattern in the movements, but he had little experience in the art.

“Absolutely—I don’t know the steps, but it can’t be that difficult!” Meirin didn’t seem concerned in the least about not knowing the dance or looking silly. She hopped down from her perch and took Etienne’s hand to weave to the front of the crowds. When an opening appeared in the reeling bodies, she jumped in, hauling him in behind her.

Meirin dropped Etienne’s hands on her waist and reached up, clasping her hands on either shoulder (he was too tall for her to lace her fingers behind his neck as some of the pairs did), and they started off. The steps were simple enough, but the music’s fast pace made it easy to fall offbeat.

No matter how many times they lost the pattern or Etienne stepped on her feet, or Meirin bonked her head against his chest, she only laughed and pressed on. “Again!” her command. They stayed on the dance floor for three more songs, each different than the last.

By the time they were done, Meirin was sweating, and her war-paint smeared. Etienne wasn’t in much better shape, his fair cheeks flushed with exertion.

“Get us drinks.” She pressed more coins into his hand and then turned towards the stage, clearly intent on putting money in the upside-down tambourine for the musicians.

Once Etienne had gotten them each a mug of something cold and frothy, Meirin had returned. Casually she looped her arm about his waist and sucked on the cider asshe scanned the rest of the tavern. At a table nearby, a group of people played cards.

“Do you know how to play?” she asked Etienne, grinning as she took another massive swallow. At this rate, Meirin would empty her glass in a few minutes.

“No,” Etienne said, laughing. He did not know how to play any card games, and still, he couldn’t be happier. He was full of Meirin’s good spirits, giddy with them. She was like Ingolan wine, fine and sparking and no less heady for its sweetness.

He was still sweating from the dancing, color high in his sharp, pale cheekbones, his cheeks aching from his grin. They must have gone too long without any real use. In the life and thrum of the tavern, all thoughts of wards and winged warriors were far from his mind, too taken up by Meirin and her arm around him. He slipped an arm around her waist as well, tying them like two links in a chain.

“Let’s see if we can join a game anyway,” he said, and off she went again, tugging him after her.

As it turned out, it didn’t matter if she or Etienne had never played, because of course, Meirin was invited over. The people of Gwynhafan were an amiable lot, or so it seemed. There