finished her section of the bread in the same time.
Dorrin uses the battered tin spoon to sample the dark substance presented as soup—lukewarm, salty, and bitter, but without anything that feels dangerous. He takes one spoonful, then another, chewing on the bread between spoonfuls.
“…how may I help you, your honors?”
Dorrin looks up at the forced heartiness of the hostel keeper’s voice.
Three guards in white leathers stand in the doorway, two men and a woman. The men are clean-shaven, and all are hardfaced.
“The only large table I have is there,” announces the wiry woman, pointing, it appears to Dorrin, right at them, rather than at the vacant adjoining table.
The three sit around the table. The older gray-haired man wears a black circle on the lapel of the white leather vest. His eyes range over the three, and he pauses for a moment, as if studying Dorrin. Dorrin meets the glance, then looks down.
The senior guard looks away and points. A fingertip of flame appears before the face of the serving woman, who turns quickly, sees the white leathers, and scurries toward the three guards. “Yes, your honors?”
“Soup and cheese, with the good beer, not the swill that Zera says is all she has,” states the man.
“Same here,” adds the woman.
The last guard only nods, preoccupied with cleaning his fingernails with the point of his white-copper belt knife.
The gray-haired server retreats through the smoke to the kitchen, and the rest of those eating pointedly ignore the White guards.
Dorrin licks his lips as the woman guard looks in his direction.
“I won’t eat you, sweetie. Not yet…” She leers at him, and the scar on her left cheek imparts a twist to the leer.
“Knock it off, Estil,” snaps the leader. “He’s a decade younger, and one of those pilgrim healers.”
“Where was he when I needed healing?”
“Knock it off.”
“All right.”
Dorrin glances toward the doorway, trying to ignore the conversation about guard rotations, someone called Jeslek, and the unfriendliness of the people in Vergren.
“…centuries later, and you’d think we’d personally fired the old keep…”
A bearded man swings open the battered door and staggers out into the afternoon, where a fine and cold spring rain has begun to fall. A gust of chill damp air flows into the hostelry, cutting through the stale warmth.
Thhuummpp…
The serving woman is setting mugs and bowls before the White guards, efficiently and quickly.
“About time…”
The senior guard hands the server a coin of some sort, and she nods.
“Why do we have to eat here?”
“You know why.”
“I know…because we have to show up everywhere, and besides it’s easier on the Council’s treasury if we eat cheap…”
The three from Recluce exchange glances. Brede pops the last of his bread into his mouth, while Kadara tilts her mug all the way back. Mechanically, Dorrin slurps the last of the soup and chews the remaining bread crust, although his stomach is more than full.
“Let’s go.”
Dorrin reaches for his pack.
“So long, sweetie!”
Dorrin flushes. Kadara grins, and a faint smile creases Brede’s face.
“Estil…”
“He’s sweet—not like you.”
Dorrin looks away from the last exaggerated leer and stumbles into the afternoon drizzle.
“You certainly made an impression there.”
Dorrin ignores Kadara’s comments, and instead looks toward the rail where the horses remain tethered. “Now what should we do?”
“Check out the stable. Then we can walk over to the farm market we passed, see about supplies for going on.”
Dorrin pulls his waterproof over his shoulders and wipes the rain off his forehead. “It’s too quiet here. Nobody says anything. Or not much.”
“We’re outsiders. What do you expect?”
XXI
The high plains shake.
A ball of light flares around the single figure in white who stands in the midst of that eye-searing radiance.
Whhhheeeeee…rrrmmmmm…
Smoke circles from
Dorrin uses the battered tin spoon to sample the dark substance presented as soup—lukewarm, salty, and bitter, but without anything that feels dangerous. He takes one spoonful, then another, chewing on the bread between spoonfuls.
“…how may I help you, your honors?”
Dorrin looks up at the forced heartiness of the hostel keeper’s voice.
Three guards in white leathers stand in the doorway, two men and a woman. The men are clean-shaven, and all are hardfaced.
“The only large table I have is there,” announces the wiry woman, pointing, it appears to Dorrin, right at them, rather than at the vacant adjoining table.
The three sit around the table. The older gray-haired man wears a black circle on the lapel of the white leather vest. His eyes range over the three, and he pauses for a moment, as if studying Dorrin. Dorrin meets the glance, then looks down.
The senior guard looks away and points. A fingertip of flame appears before the face of the serving woman, who turns quickly, sees the white leathers, and scurries toward the three guards. “Yes, your honors?”
“Soup and cheese, with the good beer, not the swill that Zera says is all she has,” states the man.
“Same here,” adds the woman.
The last guard only nods, preoccupied with cleaning his fingernails with the point of his white-copper belt knife.
The gray-haired server retreats through the smoke to the kitchen, and the rest of those eating pointedly ignore the White guards.
Dorrin licks his lips as the woman guard looks in his direction.
“I won’t eat you, sweetie. Not yet…” She leers at him, and the scar on her left cheek imparts a twist to the leer.
“Knock it off, Estil,” snaps the leader. “He’s a decade younger, and one of those pilgrim healers.”
“Where was he when I needed healing?”
“Knock it off.”
“All right.”
Dorrin glances toward the doorway, trying to ignore the conversation about guard rotations, someone called Jeslek, and the unfriendliness of the people in Vergren.
“…centuries later, and you’d think we’d personally fired the old keep…”
A bearded man swings open the battered door and staggers out into the afternoon, where a fine and cold spring rain has begun to fall. A gust of chill damp air flows into the hostelry, cutting through the stale warmth.
Thhuummpp…
The serving woman is setting mugs and bowls before the White guards, efficiently and quickly.
“About time…”
The senior guard hands the server a coin of some sort, and she nods.
“Why do we have to eat here?”
“You know why.”
“I know…because we have to show up everywhere, and besides it’s easier on the Council’s treasury if we eat cheap…”
The three from Recluce exchange glances. Brede pops the last of his bread into his mouth, while Kadara tilts her mug all the way back. Mechanically, Dorrin slurps the last of the soup and chews the remaining bread crust, although his stomach is more than full.
“Let’s go.”
Dorrin reaches for his pack.
“So long, sweetie!”
Dorrin flushes. Kadara grins, and a faint smile creases Brede’s face.
“Estil…”
“He’s sweet—not like you.”
Dorrin looks away from the last exaggerated leer and stumbles into the afternoon drizzle.
“You certainly made an impression there.”
Dorrin ignores Kadara’s comments, and instead looks toward the rail where the horses remain tethered. “Now what should we do?”
“Check out the stable. Then we can walk over to the farm market we passed, see about supplies for going on.”
Dorrin pulls his waterproof over his shoulders and wipes the rain off his forehead. “It’s too quiet here. Nobody says anything. Or not much.”
“We’re outsiders. What do you expect?”
XXI
The high plains shake.
A ball of light flares around the single figure in white who stands in the midst of that eye-searing radiance.
Whhhheeeeee…rrrmmmmm…
Smoke circles from
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