Lain’s legs ached from the march. The Brighthand had spoken little since noon, their voices clipped and cold. When they reached the inn yard, Thomas led the way.
The air inside the common room was too much at once – heat, smoke, ale, and sweat all tangled in the rafters. Voices overlapped, the laughter of merchants, the bark of dice cups, the off-key rise of a song about the sea. Every sound came wrapped in the scent of cooked fat and burning pine.
Her head swam. The sudden warmth and the smell of sweat brought the Heat thrumming back in her veins, stronger now after the day’s denial. She pulled her cloak close despite the warmth of the room, afraid to touch anyone with bare skin.
The Brighthand shouldered through the crowd, their ash-gray cloaks marking them as authority. Darrin exchanged a few quiet words with the innkeeper and secured a small table near the hearth. Thomas dropped onto the bench across from him, removing his gauntlet with a faint metallic clink.
“You’ll have quarters upstairs,” Darrin told her, handing her a heavy key. “We leave at first light.”
She nodded, grateful for the promise of solitude, though a traitorous, weary part of her imagined how easily she might have slept with company, the warmth of another body beside her against the cold.
Soon their meals came – some steaming stew that reeked of bovine, a soft slice of buttered bread, and ale. She couldn’t stomach the stew, but the bread was a treat after the stale puck she’d had for lunch. She fished out a few potatoes and hunks of some root vegetable as well, and when Darrin raised an eyebrow at her uneaten portion she pushed it toward him. He took it with a nod of thanks.
A woodsman called the Brighthand to a game of cards, and soon the clatter of coins and murmurs of wagers filled the table.
Lain approached the bar to ask for hot water. A server brought some from the kitchens in a mug – it was barley water, cloudy and warm, with grains still drifting on the surface. She much preferred this to the ale, and if she ever came to an inn again she’d have to remember to ask for this instead.
She drifted toward the fire. The Heat rolled against her, dizzying – the room was so full of the scents and sounds of men. She took a stool near the wall where she could see the door. The flicker of flames painted the world in shades of copper. She set down her pack, leaned her walking staff against the stones of the hearth, and reached for her mug. She poured a measure of licorice mixture into it and stirred with the handle of a spoon until the scent rose, sharp, medicinal, and sweet. The relief would come soon. After a few minutes, she sipped, eyes half-closed. But it wasn’t fully steeped. She’d have to wait a little longer.
The stool beside her scraped against the floorboards. A man had taken it.
“Strong scent, that.” He sniffed theatrically. “Hope it isn’t what they’re serving tonight.”
His voice was rough, a little amused, with a lilting accent that seemed playful by nature. He was dressed like a sellsword: a weather-beaten coat, sea-worn boots, a sword tied in canvas to keep it from the damp. She’d seen them in the market on the few times she’d accompanied Unsung Sisters in their errands. His hair was dark, curling where it touched his collar; his beard was close-cut, his smile too quick, too practiced. His skin was not the wind-burned bronze of the Brighthand, but a deeper hue, sun and salt made permanent. A foreigner, or a coastal man.
She had to resist the urge to stare at him; resist the urge to imagine him leaning toward her, that accent light on his mouth as he suggested that she leave behind her medicine and make use of her solitary rooms upstairs.
Lain slipped one hand beneath her sleeve and gave a hard pinch to the inside of her wrist before she drew her cloak tighter. “It’s only medicine.”
“Strong medicine,” he said, nodding toward the cup. “Mind if I borrow the warmth?”
She didn’t answer, and after a heartbeat he took that for permission. He leaned his elbows on the table, rubbing his hands together. “Headed north?”
Her first instinct was the truth; the second, survival. “No.”
He grinned, eyes narrowing a little. “Ah. We have that in common. I tell lies after supper too.”
She said nothing.
“My name’s Mallow,” he added, as though that explained his presence. “Care to give your own?”
She tried to keep her eyes down. Perhaps he’d lose interest if she stayed silent, the way a stray cat slinks away when no one feeds it. He wasn’t handsome in the way of city men, but there was an easy charm in him, something disarming. He looked as if he belonged anywhere, a talent she envied.
Lain glanced toward the Brighthand’s table. Darrin was deep in conversation with the woodsmen. Thomas had his back to her, shoulders hunched. Neither seemed to notice the sellsword’s approach.
“I mean no offense,” Mallow said after a moment. “You’ve the look of a pilgrim, that’s all. And not many pilgrims travel with Brighthand escort.”
He must have seen her glance – was she truly that transparent? She’d have to work on being more surreptitious. And here she’d imagined her Unsung robes would make her forgettable.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“They’re bound north,” she said carefully. “I happen to share the road.”
“Lucky coincidence.” He tilted his cup toward hers. “To shared roads, then.”
She hesitated, then let the cups touch. The sound was soft, almost delicate beneath the noise of the room. She took a sip of the bitter brew and felt the warmth slide down her throat like a slow mercy.
Mallow watched her, head tilted. “Ivathi accent,” he said. “But softer. Cloistered, maybe?”
Her pulse jumped. “I lived near the Spire.”
“Ah. A scholar.”
“Not quite.”
He smiled faintly. “Of course not. But we can pretend, if you like.”
It was the Heat that made her grin at his brashness, and the shame that coiled red about her cheeks and made her glance aside. He noted her reaction and gave a friendly wink before relaxing into his mug.
They sat a while in uneasy truce, the fire popping between them. He didn’t press her, and she didn’t look too long at his face – she tried to focus instead on the fire, on the way the draught was taming her Heat, though she was afraid to drink it all down before him, in case he thought her a lush, or properly ill.
But why should she care what he thought?
The room swelled with laughter, and yet she felt profoundly alone.
When she rose at last, he only lifted his cup in farewell. “Safe road, pilgrim.”
She inclined her head but didn’t answer. She reached for her walking staff and managed to fumble it. The wood slid toward Mallow and he caught it. At the same moment, her hand overlapped his.
The Tuning flashed between them – a rush of her fatigue, her soreness, the waning Heat like grasslands aching beneath fresh snow – met by his own flare of excitement, curiosity, and something near fear.
She jerked her hand away.
His brow rose. He looked her over, eyes diving from her cloak to her hooves, which were normally hidden beneath her long robes, unless one looked carefully.
“Apologies,” she muttered, and snatched her walking stick from his surprised grip. She fled for the stairs. The song in the common room rose behind her like surf, chasing her up into the dark.
Morning came blue and clear. The inn was still when she woke. The sound of the wind outside was gentle now, less a threat than a call. She lay for a while beneath the heavy woolen blanket, listening to the creak of beams and the muffled murmur of someone leading horses in the yard.
For the first time since leaving Ivath, her heart felt light. The draught had settled the fever in her blood; her head was mostly clear, her limbs steady. Today they would set out for the pass, and she would begin her true pilgrimage.
She rose before the Brighthand’s knock to fetch washing water. Her breath fogged in the chill of the little room as she dressed, fingers moving through the familiar rites of her robe and sash. The motions steadied her the way faith always did when everything else slipped.
At the window, dawn was coming soft and pale. Snowflakes drifted from a sky the color of porcelain. The world below was quiet and unsinned, and for the first time she thought she could almost forgive herself for surviving.
The pumphouse had several wash basins and towels for guests, and she filled one and brought it to her rooms. The wellwater was icy and smelled metallic. She stripped out of her robes again to clean. She’d never had a chance to fully wash the oil from her skin, and the place where her antlers had emerged was flaked with dry blood. When she was finished, the basin was murky, and she felt renewed.
She folded her hands and began the morning litany.
Fold the spine.
Sink the weight.
Give no name to pain.
Give no shape to want.
Her voice was hushed but steady, and in the stillness it was a welcome song. Each line warmed her throat, filled the small room as though she were back beneath the vaults of the Spire. When she reached the final verse, her eyes stung.
We are the hush that holds the note.
We are the line drawn through the dark.
Let the world wake.
Let the faithful walk unseen.
She smiled faintly. “Let me walk unseen.”
A knock came just as she finished tying her veil.
“Sister,” called Darrin’s voice, muffled through the wood. “Breakfast.”
“I’m ready,” she said, and meant it.
Downstairs, the innkeeper had left a heel of bread and a pot of weak tea on the hearth. Thomas was already by the door, his cloak fastened.
“I thought you’d be more difficult to rouse,” he admitted. “Good sign.”
“I wanted to see the dawn,” she said. “It looks… different, out here.”
Darrin followed her gaze toward the narrow window. “Different is right,” he admitted. “Less forgiving.”
She nodded. Inside Ivath, every dawn came perfumed.
They stepped out into the yard. Frost gleamed on every surface, the barrels, the eaves, the sign of the Black Pike hanging stiff in the morning air. Their boots crunched in the thin crust of snow. Her caps slipped a little on the icy path. She’d walk straighter without them, she knew, but she wished to remain divine. No saints walked the earth bare of hoof.
Thomas pulled his cloak tighter. “Road’ll be hard today,” he muttered.
“Hard’s better than deep,” Darrin answered. “Come on.”
They set off single file. Their breath steamed before them, rising like small prayers that faded almost at once. The sky above the trees had gone to gold. The bells at the Brighthand’s swords rang faintly as they walked, a rhythm that blended with Lain’s quiet humming of the litany.
For a time, the road was simple: packed snow, the faint trace of old cart ruts leading north. The cold burned her cheeks, but she didn’t mind. Every step away from Ivath felt like a small absolution.
She found herself smiling, and when Darrin glanced back and saw it, he smiled too.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. It’s a long climb ahead. Let’s hope the worst of the weather’s behind us.”
She nodded, feeling almost proud to be walking with them. The rhythm of their steps, the small sounds of their bells, it all felt like accompaniment to something sacred. The stranger the night before had been right about one thing: she was a pilgrim. And she would succeed on her pilgrimage.
The wyrm’s voice was gone now. She took the silence for trust. Her task was clear, her faith unbroken, and for the first time since her awakening she felt ready to face the road ahead. For now, everything was right.