The higher they climbed the central hill the more the shops and homes improved. Ryle spotted a couple trading houses and an honest to goodness bank. All three looked poorly enough guarded that he found himself noting points of entry before he shook his head and made himself find something else to inspect.
Ambry’s home, a large house that said I’m in charge without shouting, sat near the top of the town’s central hill. By the time they got there, they had more than a few townsfolk following along, thanking them and wishing them well.
Mr. and Mrs. Mayor, a round faced couple with graying hair, were even more thankful. Beds and food in the Mayor’s own house were offered, and declined. Lastrahn eventually agreed to lodging in the town’s best inn with the mayor picking up the tab. Ryle couldn’t say that didn’t sound wonderful.
Their new found hospitality didn’t end there. After extracting themselves from the Mayor’s home, they received nods and handshakes instead of suspicious glares, and Ryle spent an hour in the local mediker’s office getting patched up. The older, thin woman with thinning dark hair, made tsking sounds, and her eyes widened over the number of scars crisscrossing his body, especially the thick one inside his left collarbone, but she did her job well enough. None of the wounds proved deep enough to warrant more than a thorough, if painful cleansing, and some bandages.
Ryle felt overwhelmed with the kindness offered over such a small act, but Lastrahn took it all in stride, returning each handshake or pat on the back. If anything his mood improved as the town warmed toward them.
Ryle tried to remain focused throughout, to remember the terrible choice they’d made earlier in the day, and the bastard he’d found leading Xaviel’s men. In the end the warmth and hospitality proved too much. He found himself smiling as he returned people’s thanks. After the last couple days, it felt good to soak up some friendship. He was sure he’d have plenty of time for dark reflection in the days to come.
They acquired a new horse for Lastrahn, and on the western knoll. Ryle was surprised they were granted access after the confrontation with the other Xaviel guards. His head remained on a swivel the entire time they were there, but he saw no other men he recognized.
The horse was a big and ill-tempered bay. When Lastrahn emerged from negotiating within the owner’s barn the seller didn’t look pleased. They must’ve gotten a great deal as Lastrahn’s coin pursue didn’t look lighter for it.
By that time afternoon had passed, so Lastrahn called the day a wash, and they headed for the inn. The mayor’s offer proved sincere. Two more than adequate rooms, with big windows and bigger beds, stood ready under the eaves at the front of the building. From their rumpled condition Ryle suspected that less fortunate souls had been moved for them, but he was too tired to give them more than a passing bit of sympathy.
After so many nights in the dirt and grass, the feather mattress looked irresistible.
He didn’t get to enjoy it for a moment. He spent the time until sundown stabling the horses, and gathering the supplies Lastrahn requested. All without him paying a single coin. By the time he returned to the common room, he was no longer surprised when a bowl of steaming chili and a mug of ale were set on the table before he raised a finger.
He shook his head, and scooped chili into his mouth. Spices exploded on his tongue, causing him to gasp and cough. He might’ve pushed the bowl away, but after stringy jerky that morning, and the promise of more of the same ahead, he ate straight through the pain. A mug of ale, and then a second from the bartender, kept his mouth from conceding.
Steaming nostrils aside, he enjoyed the meal.
With the sun down outside, he thought that would be the end of it, and he could collapse in that oh so inviting bed.
He’d forgotten about the festival.
People kept coming through the doors, and all of them wanted to see Lastrahn, shake his hand, and clap him on the shoulder. If Lastrahn was busy, that meant Ryle was busy. And that meant sleep soon faded to a distant, imagined memory.
Eventually the mayor, wearing a too tight dark jacket, and his wife, in a ruffled blue dress, made their appearance and crowded in near Lastrahn. Ambry, now with much happier, excited eyes, and dressed in a yellow gown that matched her hair, followed close behind them.
The family took a spot before the bar with Lastrahn at their side. After the mayor cleared his throat, the crowd quieted.
“We were to gather here tonight,” the mayor began, in a clearly practiced voice, “to celebrate the third night, of this, the two hundred-second year of Advent.”
Two centuries. With a war on the horizon, it didn’t seem like such an accomplishment. Not even a score of generations ago their ancestors had crawled back up out of the dark. Even more recently they’d headed west for land and resources. And here they were, poised on the brink of another near catastrophe.
People clapped, voices cheered, and the mayor paused for the noise to die down. “We were to remember that the summer warmth is ending. To celebrate that crops are coming in. That trade remains strong.” More cheers and the clattering of mugs filled the room.
Despite the room, the people, and the decorations, Ryle’s mind kept slipping back outside and over the bridge to the western knoll. A bully and a killer lurked out there. One he knew too well.
Kilgren slapped Kot on the back as he wiped his knife clean.
Why the hell was Kot here? What had happened to change him from bandit-murderer to asshole guard? Had he broken off from Kilgren before Helador? Had he been there? A new thought crept to the fore and Ryle almost dropped his mug. What if he hadn’t changed sides at all?
Before his father disappeared, Ryle heard rumors that Kilgren was trying to extended his control in the Northwest. Did that reach into Xaviel? What if Kot wasn’t the only bandit to slip on new colors?
Ryle fought the wave of sickness that swept over him. How many of Kilgren’s men were on that western knoll right then?
It took him a few hissing breaths through clenched teeth to fight down the urge to slip outside and find out. He was sure he could make it across the bridge undetected. The guards had looked lazy and disorganized to a man. If Kot trained them he wasn’t surprised.
He could answer the question burning in his brain and . . .
And what?
Even if he found more of Kilgren’s men, what was he going to do about it? Go on a killing spree? With what sword? And what would Lastrahn say?
Ryle sighed, there were many bandits in the world, many men who deserved a blade. He had to focus on the ones ahead, on the bastard who’d set him down this path all those nights ago.
At some point Ryle must’ve zoned out because the mayor was talking again. He did his best to return to the moment. The small town had gone all out. He had to admit the place felt bright and festive. He did his best to enjoy it.
“But tonight, we have a new reason to celebrate. This brave champion rescued my daughter. He returned her to my wife and I with nary a hair harmed on her head.” Ryle remembered a few scratches, but the speech sounded good. Louder cheers, stomping feet and a few whistles followed.
“From those Xaviel bastards,” a voice in the crowd shouted.
The mayor’s lips pinched for a moment but he pressed on. “You Sir, have our eternal thanks.”
Lastrahn bowed to more applause.
“To the hero!” the mayor then cried as he raised a pint. A chorus of voices joined him. Glasses clinked together, and backs were slapped, Ryle’s included.
He didn’t know how Lastrahn managed it. The press, the focus, the number of people never waned. The champion smiled through it all. Not only surviving, but looking like he enjoyed himself. Ryle felt crushed being near such attention.
Never get between the people and their hero, lest you suffer the wrath of . . . Ryle frowned as the rest of his mother’s saying got lost in the buzzing in the room. Or it might’ve been inside his skull, he couldn’t tell which, and probably for good reason.
He and Lastrahn we
re offered drinks too numerous to count. Well, had drinks shoved upon them really. Even nursing his glass, and taking a couple sips per toast, Ryle had soon downed . . . An ale, then another ale, then a mulled wine, then . . . he should’ve kept track. The disconnected feeling of his head, and the warmth in his chest said they’d been numerous.
He vowed then to decline any further drinks. He couldn’t afford to lose his senses. That had never ended well for him.
Lastrahn’s drinks were even harder to track. At any given moment he held a new cup, mug, or tankard of something. Ryle couldn’t guess how much they all cost. Like in Shelling, he never saw them affect the champion though he downed each one. Ryle shook his head at this until the room wobbled too much.
Soon after instruments appeared and the sounds of strings and drums filled the air. People made space, and began kicking up their heels. Quite literally. The local dance involved low darting kicks and complex footwork at a rapid pace. It looked difficult, but the townsfolk, still holding their drinks, darted through varying patterns with ease.
On the verge of sleep, Ryle sat on a bench against the wall. He felt loose and relaxed, and he might dare say, almost content for the first time in a week.
“Well this is unexpected.”
Ryle turned then focused as the room swam. A young woman wearing a dark blue dress, her hair tucked up inside a white cap pulled low over her head, sat on the bench beside him.
“Excuse me?” he said.
Between the feet stomping, drum hammering, and guitar twanging he couldn’t hear himself think.
She leaned in closer. “A champion here in this little town. You’re travelling with him, aren’t you?”
Ryle nodded. Her dark blue, almost black, eyes searched his face for a moment, then she smiled, and her eyes twinkled like a night sky. She had a pretty smile. “I thought so. They said he rode into town with a handsome partner.”
Ryle’s cheeks warmed, probably from the ale, and he tried to not show it.
“I’m Yandra,” she said, offering her hand.
Ryle shook it feeling silly and formal. Her fingernails were painted to match her eyes. Her fingers were cool, and he noticed for the first time the paleness of her skin. Like she saw little sun. Probably a merchant’s daughter.
Only then did he remember her from when she’d passed the aftermath of Lastrahn’s rescue out on the street. He must’ve really drunk too much to forget a face so easily.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, almost having to shout, then paused. Lastrahn’s words rang in his head like a gong. Even if it felt stupid, he wouldn’t abandon his order. “Aiden. I’m just his . . . aide.”
She quirked an angular eyebrow. “Aiden the aide?”
He shrugged and she eyed him appraisingly. His cheeks warmed a bit more.
“Well you saved, Ambry. That’s what matters,” she said.
More like watched Lastrahn save her. He almost corrected her, but between having to shout, and the happy look in her dark eyes, he let it go. “I’m just glad—” he started, but then the song ended and he was shouting into a sudden void of sound.
Yandra laughed.
That didn’t help the warmth spreading down into his neck.
“I’m glad she’s okay,” he said.
“Oh, she’s fine,” she said, still watching him.
On the other side of the room, standing at Lastrahn’s side, Ambry smiled then laughed at something the champion said.
How did he do that so easily?
A guitar string twanged and a new song swept to life.
“Oh, I love this song!” Yandra exclaimed. Her hand jumped to Ryle’s forearm. “Let’s dance!”
His teeth clenched. There were few things he enjoyed less even when his head felt connected to his body. “No, thank you,” he said. “I’m good here.”
She tugged on his arm. “Oh, come on.”
He got as far as, “I’m sure you can—” before he was jerked to his feet.
A stumbling step and he was among the dancers.
Oh, hex.
Yandra smiled in front of him, holding his wrists and swinging his arms, urging him on. On their feet they were of the same height. Her dark blue eyes tracked his every movement. Ryle found his hands empty, his mug was gone. She’d somehow relieved him of it in the same deft move that pulled him to his feet.
He moved gamely to the music atop disconnected legs for a few pounding heartbeats, while his head tilted, and he felt more and more uncomfortable.
Her well cut blue skirt reminded him that he still wore his riding clothes. Clothes he’d worn for days. He had to stink of sweat and dirt, and worse. If she noticed, she said nothing. She kept swinging his arms while he tried to think of a way to extract himself without offending her.
His groggy brain refused assistance.
From the look in her eyes, it was clear anything he tried would hurt her feelings. So he put a smile on his face and did his best to mirror her movements.
She smiled wider, and twirled like he’d spun her. As if he had that much skill. Mid-way through a second spin, she tripped, and Ryle lurched forward to catch her elbow before she fell. She laughed and then laughed again as she leaned against him to catch her balance. He found himself laughing along with her.
After that the dance didn’t seem so bad. Kicks followed, some slapped hands, then more kicks, and the song ended. He’d made it.
“Okay, that wasn’t so bad,” he said.
He turned, looking for a path back to the bench. She hung close on his arm, still laughing.
“Oh, come on, one more dance,” she said.
One was enough. He started to say so when a new song began.
Oh, no.
He opened his mouth, but then she was closer. Much closer, and he knew why. This wasn’t a rousing number. The chords were strummed slowly, the pace leisurely. Couples paired off around the dance floor. He looked for a way out. Dancers surrounded them.
He became too distracted to look more.
She’d slipped inside his arms and Ryle stared into shining blue eyes while she swayed along to the music. He wavered into her. She took it the wrong way, moved closer.
He quickly stepped back. She moved with him, changed the movement into a turn and he found himself swaying to the music with her. Her hand was soft in his, the back of her dress smooth against his other palm.
She was even prettier up close. He felt his heart beating in his chest, and found he wasn’t hating dancing with her.
Fine, one more dance. He could survive that.
They moved to the music, not dancing so much as sliding back and forth.
“So what is a champion doing in a tiny place like this?” she asked.
“We’re traveling, heading south,” he said.
“To the Del?” she asked.
Ryle opened his mouth, then closed it. Lastrahn would kill him for that. He probably shouldn’t even have said so much.
“I can’t say,” he said.
She smiled wide anyway. “The Del! How exciting, and mysterious.”
The expression on her face as she said it, the tilt of her eyes, sucked most of the air out of his lungs. He let it go.
“I’ve never danced with a champion’s aide before you know,” she said.
“I hope your feet survive it,” he replied.
She laughed, leaned closer. “I’m quick on my feet,” she said and winked.
Her breath smelled sweet and spicy. His chest tightened.
Two turns later, he found her legs brushing his as they moved.
“Thank you again for saving, Ambry,” she said.
“It was nothing,” he answered.
“You’re too modest.” Her breath brushed his cheek as she spoke. “Isn’t it true the mayor was so grateful he’s paying for your rooms?”
“He really didn’t need to.”
“He wanted to show his thanks. We all do,” she said.
Another turn, they were closer still. Her bodice brushed a
gainst his shirt.
When she spoke, her breaths slid warm across his ear. “I could thank you, personally.”
Ryle vaguely heard the song winding down. He was more aware of the way she pressed against him so that he felt the shape of her body beneath her dress.
“Dancing’s not the only thing I’m good at,” she said. She rubbed her hips against him. Heat flood up his chest as his skin flushed everywhere.
Except for right over his heart. A small cooling touch rested there. The cold touch of a silver pendent.
Ryle took a sharp breath as a different heat flooded through his skull.
How had he let her get so close?
The song ended, people broke apart, moving for more drinks. Yandra stepped back, and her smile echoed the feel of her body against his. Her eyes gleamed.
Ryle cleared his throat as he searched around for the words to excuse himself.
“Aide.” Lastrahn appeared beside Yandra, coat slung over one shoulder.
“Sir!” It came out much closer to a squeak than Ryle liked.
Yandra gave Lastrahn the same look she’d given Ryle, perhaps more openly. The champion ignored her. She pouted. From the exaggerated expression Ryle realized she wasn’t herself at that moment.
Spicy breath from mulled wine for the holiday. Her eyes a little too wide. Good job missing those signs.
He’d missed a lot more than that. He tried to force his head clear. It didn’t help.
“Ambry’s parents left, so I’m taking her home,” Lastrahn said. Past his shoulder Ambry stood by herself, a soft smile on her face, a shawl in her hands. “We leave at dawn, so,” and he gave Yandra a less than flattering look, “don’t lose sleep over anything.”
Ryle cleared his throat again. “No, Sir. I was just leaving. Seems that the party’s winding down.”
The party was doing no such thing. The musicians were winding up for another tune, but he had his way out, and he was taking it.
With that Lastrahn collected Ambry, and headed for the door, shaking hands, and declining further rounds as he went.
Ryle took a large step away from Yandra as she moved in again, and bowed stiffly. He was proud he pulled that off without toppling over.
Gearspire: Advent Page 14