Page 78 of Fire Touched

The sun beats down on our backs, on our horses, too. I try to keep to the shade, but often the trees are too short to ride under. I pat my horse’s broad neck sympathetically. I don’t know his name—his being given to us was last-minute—so I’ve come to think of him as Chestnut for the hue of his coat. I pat him a few more times as the sun dips, finally waning as afternoon brings a little cloud cover.

Elijah hasn’t said a single word since we left his home, and the unease in my stomach at his silence grows with each passing hour he doesn’t speak.

It’s hard to believe he’s become so stoic simply because he misses his mate. I miss someone, too, but I don’t have that hollow, faraway thing going on. At least half a dozen times, I’ve nearly talked to him, then snap my mouth shut.

If he wants to talk about it, I’m not stopping him.

I guess he doesn’t consider me much of a friend, either.

We ride through the afternoon without a break—I hear no complaints—and as dusk settles around us, I sigh in relief as we reach the outskirts of the village where the tavern lies. Under the cover of near-darkness, I hiss a strained breath. My shoulder…

I lean forward and slide off Chestnut—nearly falling—and right myself at the last moment, barely avoiding breaking an ankle. Chestnut gives me an affectionate, light headbutt, as though glad I didn’t break anything. I pat his wide nose.

I gesture for Elijah to dismount, and he does, leading Midnight—the name I’ve dubbed his horse—along behind him. We walk the horses up the final stretch toward the tavern. At the back is a patch of dirt and a dozen posts where a few horses are already tied up, troughs of murky-looking water for them to drink.

I lead Elijah away from the horses. If this is going to work, I’d rather not be recognised. I gather some mud from the ground, rubbing it between my hands, and slick it through my noticeably blond hair.

For the first time in hours, Elijah looks at me and sees me, giving me a perplexed look.

‘I’d rather not be abducted.’ I nod at the mud. ‘You, too.’

Elijah blinks twice, considering, then follows suit.

Now I feel more gross than ever, but hopefully we’ll discourage people from looking too closely at us. If anyone were to see me and recognise me, they would capture me and take me to my uncle. I’d rather not think what they’d do to Elijah, but he wouldn’t be worth anything to them. He’d be a liability.

If Elijah wonders why we’re stopping here, I can’t read it on his face. He has that pinched, worried look down to a science. I rake a hand through my hair and grimace at the sweat that comes away. Yeah, we’ve been riding under the hot sun all day, but I highly doubt this place has showers. Besides, we’re not here to rent rooms. We’re here for the gossip and to hunt down slave traders.

I push the door to the tavern open with my right hand, my left hand and shoulder stiff with pain. And to swipe some painkillers, if possible. The tavern is starting to get crowded, travellers ending their journeys for the day.

It’s large for a tavern, which tells me how popular it is; over twenty tables spread throughout the room, a long bar to the right. There are two doors near the back, one of them painted, both leading upstairs, or to secret, private rooms. I watch a woman lead a man upstairs, her hand in his. They pass through the painted, red door.

I cast around for the best place to sit. I don’t want to draw too much attention. Hopefully we don’t noticeably reek, at least no more so than any other weary, sweaty traveller. I nod to a table in the corner, shrouded in shadows, a good distance from the fire crackling in the hearth closer to the bar.

The bartender notices us and I nod, holding up two fingers. He returns the nod as we slide into our seats.

Slicked with mud, it is hard to recognise Elijah. Though his hair is naturally a muddish colour already, it helps hide the hues of his pack. I hope I’ve managed an equally, if not more effective disguise.

A waitress brings our drinks over, lighting the tiny stub of a candle on our table. The light is barely enough to show how full the glasses are, brimming with amber liquid. ‘There you go, boys.’ The waitress doesn’t look at us twice, and twirls back toward the bar.

It’s a good start. I look around, trying to identify the patrons as the steady chatter in the tavern starts to increase, the traffic building. I count eighteen patrons in the tavern, not including us, plus two male bartenders and two waitresses. Then there’s the occasional courtesan who comes through the red door at the far end of the room, finds someone who wants to spend time with her, and they disappear through the red door together.

As we nurse our drinks, barely sipping them, I watch as most people seem to come in, exhausted from their travels of the day, flop into a chair, order a drink and dinner, eat, smile gratefully at the staff, then continue on their way.

I watch for nearly an hour. Some of the hubbub dies down. One of the waitresses glances at me. ‘Everything okay?’ She nods to my nearly-full drink.

I pause, careful. ‘I’m actually not sure I should drink,’ I say honestly. ‘Had an accident with my horse, and my shoulder’s killing me.’

The waitress pauses. ‘Oh. Let me see if I can get you something. Do you boys want dinner? You look a little pale.’

‘That would be great, thank you.’

She nods and hops off toward the bar. I watch her carefully as she opens a little cabinet, plucks a vial of something out, and places our dinner order, then returns. ‘Here.’ She hands me the vial. She pauses, leaning back. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen either of you here before. What, did you both fall in a trough?’ She laughs, the lines around her eyes genuine. She’s teasing, friendly.

I open the vial and swallow the liquid, a warm sensation gliding down my throat. I jerk my thumb at Elijah. ‘A snake spooked our horses. How I got kicked in the shoulder. We happened to land in some particularly squelchy mud.’ I lean away, also hiding my face. ‘Sorry if we stink.’

The waitress’s amusement falls away. ‘Oh. No, it’s okay.’ She leans forward conspiratorially. ‘You smell better than most of the people who come through here, especially with the… company Orllen keeps.’ Her tone is low, disapproving. She tucks a lock of brown hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture.

She knows about the owner. His slaves.

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