by Matt Thomas
The extended stay also allowed Imrail the opportunity to send out reconnaissance teams and meet up with scouts reporting in. They took up residence in the town’s barracks. With so much activity and the men freely spreading their coin around, Urian cautioned the lieutenants to keep the troops visiting Innisfield under a tight leash and impose a curfew. Lars and Landon Graves had passed through a few days back, alerting the garrison to their arrival. That was good news. What he found surprising was that word of the transfer of power had preceded them. Altaer claimed it had to do with trade and traffic. With Viamar missing, the news of his abduction had no doubt already reached the far south. That left merchants and traders in doubt about the safety of roads and the security of their goods. Now the masters of Penthar were moving south. That meant war. War sometimes meant profit. Not the most compelling reasons to send runners, but he did admit it made sense. Sort of. He supposed such things were possible, but then there was always his mother to consider. More than likely she had taken a direct hand in matters.
Choosing to stay indoors, Luc spent the first few hours going through his belongings attempting to bring them into some semblance of order. He was having a hard time deciding where to begin. Too many other pressing issues to mull over, he supposed.
He was surprised when Trian entered, long, silky hair damp and hanging straight, overcoat recently pressed and open, revealing a button-up half-coat covering a creamy blouse. Laced boots completed the ensemble. Suppressing a spark of panic, he looked back down at the bed. A light, fresh scent in the air held just the faintest hint of soap. He thought he could also pick out her natural scent, for some reason charged with a distinct floral fragrance.
“You’re preoccupied,” Trian said. From her, with just the two of them, it did not sound accusatory. It was the sound of spring breathing life into a world caught in slumber.
Still not looking at her, he nodded. “You seem to have that effect on people.”
There was a long silence, then, “I am not sure how to take that, Luc.”
He glanced at her. “The way it was meant,” he said. So many other things to say. Months would not be sufficient. Now they only had a few days, if that.
Crossing her arms, she folded a hand beneath her chin, tapping her lower lip with a forefinger. “You are not very expressive, you know,” she said. “Not surprising, I suppose. You rarely were.”
Hard to say how much she remembered. It changed by the day. Standing there looking at him expressionlessly, he sensed her anxiousness. She seemed almost discouraged. Or worse. He was certain what they had between them would never be anything like he observed between Imrail and Avela, or his parents for that matter. What they shared was, in some indefinable way, more intense, personal. Not to discount anything the others felt or shared. It was just different, bridging time and memory. He knew some of Trian’s attention was just a bit of playful ribbing, but it masked other emotions. She had to know it was becoming increasingly difficult to differentiate, to separate, what she was now from what she had been before. She could be many things, all at once, at times distant and enigmatic, at others instinctive, eternal. Most of the men did not know what to make of her. Some knew the truth now, though. What she was. A flower that never lost its bloom. Qualities few could perceive let alone understand. And she had promised herself to him. Not in so many words, but still. . . .
“Just wishing it was only the two of us,” he said finally, a long breath escaping him.
“That’s better,” she whispered. “You need to practice.” She took a glance at the gear and spare clothing he had spread out across the bed in random piles. “You have people who will do that for you now, you know.”
“I sent them away.”
Moving forward, she stopped just short of the bed. For some reason her skin had taken on a rosy hue. “I was thinking we could go out for a stroll,” she began. “Just the . . . just the two of us, as you said. Maybe for one night imagine our enemies never existed, you and I alone to pursue . . . other interests.” Seeing her take hold of the bedpost, he stood and unbuckled his sword belt. He suddenly wished he had given some thought to a bath. A night for just the two of them? That was a dream. The dream of a dream.
“I passed through Innisfield on my way to Alingdor, but did not get much of a chance to see it,” Trian added. “I thought together, before what is coming . . .” She was clutching the bedpost so hard now he thought her hands must have hurt. He had never seen appear her quite so girlish, or impulsive. The sight made his mouth dry and his knees weak. “One night can’t hurt, can it?” she ended.
He shook his head mutely, momentarily lost in a daze. One night to imagine. And to remember. That could hardly hurt, could it? He could do for himself. Perhaps he had to do for himself. “Why not?” he said with a shrug. “Do we tell Imrail?”
She made a face. “Definitely not.”
He frowned. “How are we going to get free of the guards then?”
Trian smiled. “You’re the king. Command them.”
He grimaced. “You think it’ll work? Maybe we could find an inn—”
“An inn?” Now she was breathless, dark eyes wide, face flushed. “Luc Anaris, I’m not sure what you thought I had in mind, but that was not . . . I mean, we couldn’t possibly . . .”
He never imagined she would actually consider it. He was just grateful she did on some level—he suspected it would have hurt a bit had she said anything otherwise. “Not for that. Just . . .” He struggled, face hot. “. . . to pretend.”
“Two travelers then. Bound for the First City.”
His hands were shaking. “Works for me,” he said weakly, heart pounding in his ears.
Her face lit up. “Let me get a few things. You should bring some clothes.”
“I’ll tell Hireland,” Luc said. “He won’t raise any objection.”
“Good,” she said, face firm, decisive. “I won’t be long.”
* * * * *
Within a quarter hour they were exiting by way of a side gate. With Imrail still out, Hireland and Mearl did not protest. Their one condition was allowing the two of them to tag along, if hanging back. Contrary to what Luc had anticipated, both men, even the stiff-faced, reserved Mearl, seemed to think a change of scenery would do the pair some good. Attempting to ignore the murmurs the barracks’ guards exchanged when they left, he slipped a hand into Trian’s. He had tried to find something less conspicuous to wear, but having no control of his wardrobe, gave up. After some hesitation he decided to take along his sword. He did not feel comfortable leaving it behind. The Rod he tucked away in a pack he carried across his shoulder. Trian had a leather satchel strapped to her arms. She had a contented look on her face.
Still road-weary, he ached to put behind the images that pursued him, waiting just at the edge of his unconscious. Imprints he could not outrun. Echoes he could not resist. His folks claimed what he was now was more important. Maybe they were right. But right or wrong, this felt right.
Innisfield was quiet at this hour. Like the Landing, the town had a quaint feel. Unlike it, thousands appeared to live here. This seemed a critical point along the highway. Near Alingdor, but not so near. Near the south as well. Taking backstreets, they passed through residential districts where single story homes were packed together, structures sometimes sharing walls with one another. Quite a distinction being a landowner in Penthar, even if only one with a modest home such as these. Here the air was alive with the scent of fresh herbs from tended gardens. Windowsills were bathed by the golden light of fireside hearths, pottery and plants on display at door fronts. The walls rising up in the distance were the modest compared to Alingdor’s; having some point of comparison, these did not seem as formidable as they might have otherwise, but were hardly for show. Overall, he found the town impressive enough in its own right. Residents they passed seemed pleasant enough. Some waved or openly greeted them. For the moment it appeared they might actually be able to pull this off.
Striking for the hea
rt of the town, the streets widened some, industry and commerce dominating its layout. Despite the hour there was still a great deal of activity and movement about. They passed laborers hauling wares, merchants just closing up shop for the night, bakers arriving to work in preparation for the next morning, and general movement native to a town of this size. The occasional sentry looked them over curiously, keeping watch from the shadows.
With both arms wrapped through his, Trian looked at him. “We are not actually spending the night out, are we?”
He shrugged. “It might give Imrail and Avela something to talk about,” he said with a chuckle. Something other than their nonstop bickering. “Besides, doesn’t seem much that could trouble us here.”
“Let’s hope not,” Trian said a little nervously.
Reaching the town square, movement steadily increased. Locals seemed accustomed to the considerable amount of activity in and around the town center. Some kept to themselves, while others ended the day intent on interacting with neighbors and travelers, perhaps eager for news. Trian judged there seemed a significant number of southerners. They also saw troops from the companies camped outside of Innisfield, some appearing as if on duty, some making their way back to the barracks or the southern gate. Lowering his head, he felt a momentary spark of panic and quickened his steps, hoping the two of them would pass undetected. He saw at least three inns and two taprooms. Steering towards one with a sign shifting lightly in the night breeze, The Crimson Arms, he risked a quick glance around them. Trained to some degree to detect pursuit, he sensed nothing out of the ordinary and breathed out a sigh of relief when they reached the inn’s doors.
Entering, he was unprepared for the number of patrons still about. Practically bursting, the inn was active and bustling, customers calling out orders, guffaws and howls exchanged over cards or rattling dice games, toughs putting down the occasional fracas or flare-up, men raising mugs and tankards, and the occasional woman swatting away the groping hands of men who had sauced themselves. His first true experience at a large inn after dark, he found the scene absorbing. Servers weaved through tables with four or more chairs, trays laden with food and drink. How they managed not to spill anything despite being jostled at every turn was beyond him. He found the inn clean and free of ale or wine spills. The warmth from the hearth and the smells from the kitchen were inviting. Overall, he thought the Crimson Arms would present a welcome change. Glancing at Trian, her slight nod indicated the place would do.
For the moment unnoticed, he took her elbow and nimbly guided her to a table in a corner to their left partially concealed by a column buttressing the beamed ceiling. They sat at angles, their backs to the center of the common room. A little on edge and out of breath, he imagined Imrail or Urian bursting in and hauling them out on the spot. Thankfully he did not see any of the general’s advisors.
From what he could see, locals seemed to cluster together, identified by the hallmarks of their trades or professions. Laborers drank ale, merchants and shop owners wine or other spirits. Travelers ranged from moderately prosperous to drifters with patched cloaks seated at the bar. The smells of wine, smoke, and ale mixed with braising beef and simmering stews made his stomach rumble.
Exchanging knowing grins, Trian surprised him by whispering in his ear. “Well, that was about the most impulsive, spontaneous thing I think the Lord Viamar-Ellandor has ever done. I feel almost giddy. More so than the time Rayena and I snuck out after hours. It earned us a switching, but it was worth it.”
Luc leaned forward. “Rayena?”
Her face suddenly grew distant. “One of my sisters. We shared lessons and roomed together. She joked we would both end up old and crotchety like Mistress Ione if we did not run away. That was when we were younger. Much younger. Looking back, I realize she was just being protective. Mistress Ione, I mean.” Pausing, she did not seem aware she was studying the back of his hand. “I will have to go back, you know. One day.”
He felt himself tense immediately. “To Val Mora?”
“Maybe to the city, for a time, or Iron Hold to the east. That’s where this will end. When the end comes, I mean.” She finished it quietly, dark eyes, hazel in the dim light, far away.
“When?”
“Not anytime soon.” Taking a deep breath, she studied him. “Not to worry. You will be with me, I am sure.”
Taking in her considerably pale skin, smooth and without flaw, he felt some of the tension leave him. He did not think he would be able to do what he needed to without her. He wondered if it went both ways. Her own role was still much a mystery, gaps in his memory, in theirs, while for the most part welcome, still leaving them with lingering doubts. Well, they had both decided to put them aside for one night. He meant to.
From the snatches of conversation he picked up, the First City was on the tongues of locals and travelers alike. He heard Imrail’s name mentioned more than once. Someone commenting on a slant-eyed, large-armed beast appearing earlier that night could only be referring to Urian. Despite the threat of war, locals seemed in good spirits. The recent Harvest Rite had been celebrated for weeks, longer than was normal in these parts. Fears seemed minimal. There was plenty of work—and would be more if any of the locals joined up with the army Imrail was gathering; many planned to do so, it seemed—and the mayor was universally adored. Pleasant times for the town of Innisfield. He only hoped his arrival did not spoil it.
Intermittently glancing over his shoulder, eventually a woman with traces of gray highlighting her otherwise dark hair spotted them. She had a slender build and a welcoming face. Passing four flagons to a group of men who thanked her by name—Lina, he heard them say—she made her way towards them, wiping her forehead with the edge of her apron. “A pleasant evening to you,” she greeted, looking them over. Her matronly gaze being sharp and astute, she picked up on their nervousness, but showed signs of something else entirely, a widening of the eyes and shifting of the lips, a series of blinks as well. “First time in Innisfield?” she remarked smoothly, masking whatever it was she had been thinking. “Bound north or south?”
“North,” Luc replied.
“Well, my Lord,” she said carefully, still glancing between them, “welcome to the Crimson Arms Inn and Tavern. I am Mistress Carlin. Most call me Lina.” Stepping back, she took them in a second time. “If I may say, a more striking pair I’ve never met. My daughter would weep herself to sleep a month straight if that rogue of a son-in-law of mine ever set eyes on you, my Lady—that is if she could pry her eyes off you, my Lord. A flightier girl you’ll not meet. I swear, she’ll send me to Elloyn before the year’s out. I warned her not to marry so young. Now she—” The woman caught the looks the two of them exchanged and suddenly went scarlet. “Forgive me! I do go on! Thing is, a mother’s work is never done. She should’ve minded me and looked for an honest suitor. Innisfield has never prospered more than under Viamar’s reign. There’s work, and plenty of it for someone willing. All that spoiled vermin does is break bargains and spend his pop’s stipend on brandy. He will be the ruin of her. Well, at least the line’s secure from what they say, so there’s some hope he’ll have time to make something of himself, though I do wish the White Rose had a year or two on the throne.”
“Me too,” Luc murmured.
“Mistress Carlin,” Trian said, “you seem to know a great deal about these parts. We are new to the region. Perhaps you could join us for a few minutes? Tell us of any recent tidings?”
“Truly?” She glanced around them. Her return look was slightly regretful. “I honestly couldn’t, my Lady. Too much to do with Ran’s wife laid up. My brother,” she explained. “He’s the owner of the Crimson Arms. A fine man. His wife is due any day now. This’ll be his first. My husband’s a teamster. Spends days on the move, so I’ve the time to fill in. A good man, though. Honest, brave. With war coming, I fear he’ll take up with the younger folk intent on signing up to fight for this new king, keep an eye on them so to speak. They say he’s something fie
rce, this youngster. Son of the Warden, but I fear that's just wild talk. Wishful, perhaps.
“Well, there I go again. I promise I’ll stop by if there’s time. What can I get for you this fine evening?”
“You have rooms?” Trian asked. “We would like a meal first—anything you can throw together.”
“A meal is no trouble. You’ll find no finer fare in Innisfield. Rooms are in demand these days, though. Will you be needing one or two?”
She eyed them so deliberately he suspected his own face was as red as Trian’s. “One,” Trian said at the same time he said, “Two.”
Mistress Carlin smiled. “Not married then. A shame, really. You have the look about you. Reminds me of when I was your age. We do have a split-view available, two rooms adjoining a quaint sitting room. Quite serviceable, but expensive. That’s why it’s still available. I have two others. Should do for your men there.”
“Our what?”
The woman smiled knowingly. “I saw you come in. They strolled in deliberately just after you were seated. Not much gets past me. Bound for Triaga, my Lord?”
Luc not responding, Trian nodded. “Something like that. The rooms will do, Mistress Carlin. Lina, I should say.” Scanning the common room, he caught Mearl and Hireland seated with their backs to the far wall. The younger of the two gave him a barely perceptible nod.
“Well, if that’s all for the moment, I’ll see to your food. Will either of you need a bath drawn?” Lina asked.
“That would be excellent,” Trian said.
“Done. A pleasure, my Lord,” she said with a curtsy. “My Lady.”
Waiting for the woman to depart, Trian giggled. “That was positively entertaining.”
He was not so sure. “I wonder if she guessed more than she let on,” Luc worried.
“No matter.” Trian took his hand. “A shame there isn’t any dancing. That would be fine. I hear you just adore dancing.”
He shook his head slightly, not entirely amused. “You must have me confused with someone else.”