by K. C. May
Chapter 16
While Daia typically enjoyed traveling with a companion, she appreciated the opportunity to ride in silence. The conversation with Tennara and the incident with the beyonders weighed heavily on her mind. Upon her return to Sohan, she planned to talk to Aminda at once. By the time Cirang arrived to tell her twisted version of the tale of the battle, Aminda would already have heard it.
The glow of the village at the Lucky Inn grew brighter as Daia neared, and the drone of distant conversation punctuated by laughter and shouting coaxed her out of her long reverie. A knotted rope passed through a hole in the stone wall beside the gate, and she leaned over in the saddle and yanked it, clanging a bell on the other side.
The crisp and cool night air raised bumps on her skin. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms while she waited for someone to let her in. At last, the heavy gate swung open and she clicked her tongue to urge her mare through.
The Lucky Inn had expanded considerably since Daia’s first stay a dozen years ago when she and her family had traveled to Calsojourn. Now the sleeping rooms were in a separate building to the left of the circular roadway, and the tavern and betting hall filled the entire building to the right. Homes and small farms huddled around the inn and tavern, their residents supplying food, drink and other goods to the travelers.
Daia gave the stable hand two pielars to tend her horse for the night, and pulled her leather bag from the saddle. She paid five more coppers for lodging and took her bag up the creaking stairs to her room, dark except for the soft glow of moonlight through the tiny window. Without bothering to light the lamp beside the bed, she sat down to remove her boots.
Even with the door shut, the noise from the tavern made its way across the roadway and through the walls and doors of the inn. Daia did not see how she would be able to sleep through the racket. With a sigh, she laced her boots back up and went downstairs to relax with a drink.
Pulling open the tavern door, she squinted in the relative brightness. Voices rose in the pit starting with an accusation of cheating. A scuffle ensued, ending when one man hefted another over-shoulder and tossed him out the door.
Daia made her way to the back of the room and sat alone. The tabletop was rough with carved names, words and pictures, their lines black with grime. One carving, recently etched, resembled an hourglass. Daia traced it with a finger, wondering who had carved it and why.
When the serving wench came around, Daia ordered a full tankard of ale and sat back to observe the other patrons. Every few minutes, someone made his way from the pit wearing a predictably dispirited expression. The game of chance going on in the center of the room attracted most of the attention, but Daia found the other patrons equally interesting.
Across the room sat a small dark-haired woman. Judging from the almond shaped eyes and high cheekbones she was probably half Farthan. And judging from the way she sat on a chair with her gray skirt hiked up to the middle of her thighs, baring her hairy legs, she was quite drunk. Over the talking and laughter, Daia heard her belches clear across the room. Every now and then, the woman bellowed a string of obscenities to someone at the betting table.
A trio of battlers sat at a table near the door, guzzling ale and arm wrestling each other. Daia couldn’t help grinning at the men, as she and her friends had similar contests to determine who paid for the next round. One of them, a dark-haired fellow, met her eye and lifted his tankard to her before taking a long swig.
“Somethin’ to eat?” the serving girl asked as she set down a tankard.
Daia dropped two copper coins in the barmaid’s outstretched palm and curled her lip at the thought of eating in this filthy place. “No,” she replied. The leathery meat she had in her satchel was kings’ fare compared to the slop they served in places like this.
Directly across from Daia sat a man dressed in black. A Nilmarion man, lean and wiry, he wore his long black hair tied behind his head. His eyes, nose, mouth and ears were decorated with swirling black lines sewn into his olive skin. While he wore no sword at his hip, he had a dangerous air. He sat somberly, his small, dark eyes darting about the room as though trying to identify potential adversaries. Or perhaps victims. A nearly full glass of red liquid sat before him, undoubtedly vinegar passed off as wine. His hands, tattooed like his face, caressed the glass as though it were a fine crystal goblet.
Three men and a woman sat at Daia’s left. Their clothing, bland of color and style, and lack of weapons identified them as merchants or farmers.
“...and that magic light sucked him up into the sky ship – plucked him right out of his corn field,” a man said. “Never heard from again.” The patrons around the table groaned. Daia smiled into her tankard.
“That’s horse dung. Ain’t no one goin’ to believe a story ‘bout flyin’ ships,” the woman said.
“I got one. Listen to this,” the older man among them said. “This story’s true to the word. Do you know the blacksmith Risan Stronghammer in Ambryce?” he asked, turning to the man beside him.
“No, can’t say I do,” his companion replied.
“Well, he’s a Farthan, like yourself,” the older man replied obstinately.
The Farthan set down his tankard and turned to look at the gray-haired man with an impatient expression. “Do you think all Farthans know each other? I suppose you think we all look alike too, don’t you? Tell your story or shut up.”
The man took a swallow of ale and wiped his mouth with a hand. “I happen to know that he’s the one that’s been solvin’ the King’s Runes.”
Daia looked up over her tankard. She turned her head so she could hear the tale better.
“How d’you know that?” the Farthan asked.
“Friend of mine heard it from a friend of his just the other night. Said Stronghammer was gettin’ bashed in a tavern in Ambryce and told the whole story. Risked his own life to save a girl from drownin’ in the river too, that’s what kind o’man he is.”
“Now that’s a story for the crows to laugh at,” the Farthan said. “Whoever figured out the runes has been keeping his self secret. Why would he decide to start telling folks now -- in taverns, no less?”
The older man pulled himself up indignantly. “It’s true. He was drunk, why else would he tell his secret? My friend says Stronghammer has the gems from the rune tablet – that’s proof right there.”
Daia stared into her tankard, pretending not to hear, while her mind raced. If this was true, then Risan Stronghammer would become Thendylath’s new king. This was big news. Big for the country, big for the Sisterhood.
She needed to get this news back to Aminda right away. The guild mistress would surely want to send some of her officers to Ambryce to establish a relationship with this man. When he claimed his right to the throne, he would need an army to defend that right.
The Nilmarion across from her sat with his head cocked also. Daia caught his eye and a shudder swept through her. He has no soul, she thought. No, how absurd. It must have been the poor lighting in the tavern that made his eyes look empty.
With a smirk, he drained his wineglass with one long swallow, and stood.
Daia watched him walk to the door. Would he travel to Ambryce to find the blacksmith? Two of the three battlers at the table near the door stood. One of them followed the Nilmarion out, and the other, the dark-haired man who had acknowledged her earlier, approached.
“May I join you?” the battler asked Daia, pulling out a chair. He sat without waiting for her reply and signaled for the barmaid to bring two more tankards. “I’m Domach Demonshredder,” he said, extending his hand.
She shook it but kept her eyes on the open door, trying to spot the Nilmarion in black. “Daia Saberheart.” She was in no mood to fend off male advances and would rather sit and contemplate the story she’d overheard.
“My younger sister joined the Viragon Sisterhood a couple of years ago. Perhaps you know her?”
“What’s her name?” Daia asked, surprised. She turned her attention to him.
He was not bad looking: brown hair, blue eyes, neatly trimmed mustache and a handsome cleft in his chin. Still, he had a gleam in his eye that she knew very well – the look of a man on the prowl.
“Brawna Beliril, though I guess she would’ve chosen an epithet by now.”
Daia smiled. She could see the resemblance now. The sharp nose, sparkling eyes, wide mouth. “I know her well. She has yet to choose an epithet because she has not earned her brown sash – rules of the Sisterhood – but she has earned a nickname: Brawna the Blade. Your sister fares well.”
Domach let out a long sigh. “I’ve worried about her. She’s still so young - only seventeen years.” When the two tankards were delivered and paid for, he downed half of one in a single gulp, then contorted his face, silencing a belch. “I couldn’t get into the compound to see her. Thank you for your reassurance. Brawna the Blade, did you say?”
“Yes, she’s becoming an excellent battler. I help her train sometimes. You needn’t worry about your sister.”
Movement near the door drew Daia’s eye. The blond battler from Domach’s table walked back into the tavern and sat down, but the Nilmarion did not return.
Domach reached with a finger and stroked Daia’s hand. “Would you give her a message when you see her next?”
“Certainly.” Daia pulled her hand away, giving him a message too.
Domach leaned back in his chair with a resigned smile. “Just let her know you’ve seen me, that I am well and thinking of her.”
“Gladly,” Daia said. She lifted her chin toward the table where his two drinking companions sat. “The blond battler in the blue coat -- do you know him well? Is he a warrant knight?”
Domach turned in his chair, then faced forward again. “Yes. Do you want an introduction?”
Daia gave him an impatient look. “I’m just curious. He looks familiar,” she lied. “Would his name happen to be, ah, Silard Sharp-something? Sharpblade? Sharpwit?”
Domach shook his head, smiling. “Toren Meobryn. I’ll introduce you if you’d like.”
“No, but thank you. I’ll bid you good-night, then, and safe journeys.” She stood and headed toward the door.
As she passed the blond’s table, she paused, considering whether to approach him. He looked up, smiled and pulled out a chair beside him. She walked over and leaned on the table, sizing him as she approached.
A thin, light brown beard emphasized the contour of his square jaw. A leather thong disappeared under his white shirt, implying that a warrant tag hung ready to display on request. His eyes were like steel beads, and the lines on his face mapped a life of frowns. He reminded Daia of a man who had given up all hope of happiness and would take to hell with him anyone who caused him insult.
Just as he opened his mouth to say something, she asked, “May I speak with you in private for a moment?”
His eyebrows went up and a look crossed his face that said, ‘Why not?’ Toren rose and followed her outside.
“Sorry to interrupt your recreation,” she said, looking around for the Nilmarion, “but could you tell me how to find the man in black?”
Toren cocked his head. “I don’t know which man you mean.”
“He left just a few minutes ago. You followed him out of the tavern.”
“Sorry, I didn’t notice him. I just stepped out to piss.”
A battler who paid so little attention to his surroundings wouldn’t likely live a long life, which made him either a fool or a liar. She searched his gray eyes, mindful that many people found her stare to be unnerving. Sometimes, she found silence to be an excellent tool to draw information out of people, but Toren stood quietly in front of her, his expression calm and his eyes steadily holding hers.
A long moment passed, and still she said nothing. The corners of his mouth twitched toward a smile. “Why not sit and have an ale with me?” he asked. “My treat.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m ready for sleep,” she said. “If you happen to see him return, would you send a message to my room? Number fourteen.”
Toren inclined his head. “And you are?”
“Daia Saberheart.”
“All right, Daia Saberheart. If I see this Nilmarion in black, I’ll send a message.”
She smiled. She hadn’t specified a Nilmarion man. “Thank you, Toren Meobryn.”
She walked across the gravel drive toward the stable. Stable hands sometimes knew the most interesting things. For the cost of a smile, the pimple-faced young man gave her a description of the Nilmarion’s carriage: black with silver trim, drawn by four black horses. But even the offer of a few silver coins did not persuade him to let her search inside.
Daia slept fitfully that night and awoke early. As she readied her horse to return to Sohan, she considered the story she’d heard. Perhaps Aminda would allow her to initiate a relationship with Risan Stronghammer. Daia was, after all, the Lordover Tern’s daughter. She knew how to court a dignitary.
She started north toward Sohan as the sun cast an eager orange glow across the sky. Take the initiative, Aminda had said. Daia pulled the reins and turned around, yet she paused. On one hand, she’d been ordered to return to Sohan with the merchant’s payment and Tennara’s collection of fees. And she needed to talk to Aminda about the beyonder battle before Cirang did. On the other, this might be the most important mission she could ever take. If the Nilmarion in black had ill intentions, she might still have time to reach Ambryce and find the blacksmith before any harm befell him. In fact, if she returned to Sohan and told Aminda what she knew, she might be castigated for not having taken action to safeguard the next king. Consider all factors. Take the initiative. If Aminda wanted proof of Daia’s leadership, proof she would receive.
Daia returned to the Lucky Inn and found the stable boy saddling a horse in the drive. “The Nilmarion’s coach,” she said, “has it left yet?” Her mount pranced and side-stepped, eager to be off.
The boy squinted up at Daia, the morning sun on his face. “Yes, m’lady. It left afore sun up.”
Damn it. “Which way did it go?”
“To the south, I think.”
With a hard pull on the rein, she spun Calie about and kicked her into a gallop toward Ambryce. Daia would earn more than just a promotion for herself. She would earn a place in the king’s guard for the entire Sisterhood.
If the story was true.
Chapter 17
Gavin walked into the tavern and looked around. Usually the Lucky Inn swarmed with activity, but this evening more travelers sat on the deck surrounding the pit than wagered their coin at the table below. A hush settled over the room. Heads turned toward him.
Gavin looked around at the faces until he saw a pair he recognized. One of the men waved a hand in hail. Gavin made his way to their table, ignoring the staring patrons. Gradually the hum of casual conversation resumed. He nodded at his friends and extended a hand toward the older one first. “Calinor.”
“Gavin, good to see you’re still alive,” Calinor said. He gave Gavin a crushing handshake. “Someone’s angry husband ha’nt caught up to you yet?”
“No, but if he comes here looking for me…” Gavin said with a crooked grin.
“I ha’nt seen you,” Calinor finished. The lines framing his eyes deepened with his smile.
The second man, younger with dark hair and moustache, laughed too loudly at the joke, reminding Gavin of a stray dog wagging its tail in the hope of finding a friend.
“Domach,” Gavin said, shaking his hand. He pulled out a chair and sat to Calinor’s right. “Got your warrant tag yet?”
“Gavin.” Domach signaled the barmaid to bring more ale. “I don’t need a tag. I find plenty of work without one.”
A third man sitting with them offered his hand, a blond with a thin beard lining his jaw. He dressed more like a nobleman than a battler in a blue waistcoat and a white linen shirt with long puffy sleeves. “Toren Meobryn,” he said.
Gavin clasped his hand. “What? No chosen name?” he ask
ed.
“My family name’s good enough for me,” Toren replied. “Isn’t yours?”
“Sure,” Gavin said. He tried to think of something to say to change the subject before this one went off-path.
Domach snorted. “Gavin’s family name’s the envy of every battler in the realm. Neither did he take an epithet.”
“Shut up, Demonshredder,” Gavin grumbled.
Toren raised his brows. “Is that so? What name would that be?”
All fell silent at the table as they turned to Gavin, waiting for him to speak it. “Kinshield,” he said quietly. Here it comes.
“A descendant of the famous Ronor?” Toren asked.
Gavin jerked a brow in response: a nod equal to the respect he held for the man who had passed down the family name. But Kinshield had also been Gavin’s father’s name, and that alone was reason enough not to abandon it for an epithet.
The barmaid brought four dented pewter tankards and set them down. Ale sloshed over their rims and onto the table. “Eight pielars,” she said, holding out her wet hand.
Domach waved everyone to put away their coin purses and paid for the drinks.
“Say,” the serving wench began as she pocketed the coins, directing her gaze at Gavin, “you find that diamond you was lookin’ for?”
Everyone turned to him. “Yeh, thanks.”
“What’s this now?” Calinor asked. Each of the men picked up a tankard.
Gavin waited until the barmaid was out of earshot. “It’s Calewen’s Pendant,” he said in a low voice.
“Oh yeh? I heard it was stolen from her shrine,” Calinor replied.
“Yeh. I’m taking it to the museum in Ambryce.”
“And restoring the integrity of our lost heritage,” Domach said. “To hero’s blood.” He raised his ale in toast.
The two other men followed suit. Gavin glared at Domach. “Leave off with the hero crap, will you?” he said in a low voice, then raised the tankard to his lips and took a long draw.
“You headed directly to Ambryce, then, Gavin?” Calinor asked.
