Taking Flight

Kelder turned to see her walking up a narrow path that descended from the bridge’s entrance to the river. Even in the dim glow of the torches he could see that she was soaked, her long hair hanging in ropes down her back, her white tunic drenched and clinging heavily to her body.

That was very interesting to look at, from Kelder’s point of view, as the garment was almost transparent when wet, but he saw that it was also obviously cold and uncomfortable, and he helped her up the stone step that linked the path to the highway.

“What happened?” he asked. “I thought your clothes changed with you.”

“They do,” she said. “I feel dumb.”

“Why?” Asha asked.

Irith snorted in annoyance, and Kelder felt her shivering.

“We can talk about it later,” he said. “Let’s get to the inn. Irith can dry off there, and we can all warm up.”

Nobody argued, and the four of them trudged up the hill, drops of water pattering from Irith’s clothes and hair. Kelder’s sleeve was saturated as well, where he had put his arm around her.

The hill was longer than it had initially appeared-Kelder had assumed that it was covered with sprouting grain, as the other bank of the river was, though he could not see any in the dark; he had figured that into his estimates. In fact, the ridge was covered with meadows, which meant it was higher than Kelder had estimated. Furthermore, the inn was not at the top but at the foot of the other side.

They did reach it eventually, and found their way around to the entrance, which was on the opposite side. Ezdral was more alert on the way than he had been in hours, obviously seriously concerned about Irith. It was clearly all he could do to keep from wrapping protective arms about her.

“Don’t you have a blanket, Kelder?” he asked, about halfway up the first slope.

Kelder cursed himself for his own stupidity and, without stopping, dug a blanket from his pack and wrapped it around the Flyer’s shoulders.

When they reached the door it was closed; a torch blazed in a bracket above it, but there was no signboard or other indication that the place was open for business. Light spilled out through cracks in the shutters, so it was obviously not deserted, but Kelder hesitated.

“Are you sure it’s an inn?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” Irith said. Without bothering to knock, she opened the door and stepped in.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Sound and light and warmth washed over Kelder as he followed Irith into the inn. He found himself in a large, comfortable room, standing on well-worn planking and facing several tables of assorted shapes and sizes. Half a dozen patrons were clustered about one of the larger tables, shouting encouragement to two burly men who sat facing each other, hands locked in an arm-wrestling match. The faces of the two competitors were red and strained with effort. Nobody seemed to be eating, but some of the spectators had mugs in their hands.

The walls were stone, but pierced with numerous doors and shuttered windows. At one end of the room a cheery blaze failed to come anywhere near filling a huge fireplace; a row of mugs stood on the mantle, and above them a scabbarded sword hung from wires set into the stonework.

Most of those present ignored the new arrivals, but a tall brown-haired man in an apron, apparently in his thirties or so, looked up and exclaimed, “Irith!”

“Valder!” Irith called back in Trader’s Tongue, “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” the man said in the same language, hurrying over. “What about you?”

“I’m freezing cold and dripping wet,” Irith replied irritably, “but other than that I’m the same as ever.”

“Well, come on over by the fire,” Valder said, beckoning. “I’ll get you something warm to drink. Thetta!”

A serving wench appeared through one of the doors and looked at the innkeeper questioningly. “Build up the fire a little, would you?” Valder told her. “And tell someone to bring some tea-the kettle’s hot, isn’t it?” Nor was he idle himself; as he spoke, he was shoving a table out of the way and setting a half-circle of chairs around the hearth.

Just then the arm-wrestling match ended, amid shouts and cheering.

“He got you good, Kelder!” someone called, and Kelder of Shulara growled to himself.

“Best two out of three?” another voice asked.

“That was two out of three!”

“Three out of five, then!”

“Done, for another copper.”

“You’re on.” The huddle, which had shown signs of dispersing, coalesced anew. Thetta disappeared back into the kitchen, or whatever lay beyond that door; Valder turned, exasperated, then shrugged and gestured to the chairs.

Gratefully, the four travelers settled into the proffered seats, Irith in the center, Ezdral on her left and Kelder on her right, with Asha on Kelder’s right. They sat silently for a moment, warming hands and feet, while Valder poked at the fire and shouted for more wood.

Thetta reappeared with an armful of logs, and close behind her came a boy bearing a metal tray that held a teapot and half a dozen cups.

“You didn’t say how many, sir,” the boy said as he approached. “Is it enough?”