The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (35 page)

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 heart 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 fierce, 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.”

“Perhaps.”

Content to wait for their meal, he wrestled to maintain some control over his thoughts, the darker ones at least, so they did not impose on the moment. Before long they would have to turn in, still having a full day ahead of them tomorrow, if Imrail did not find them first. Seated together he almost found himself believing the story they had told Mistress Carlin. There were moments when he certainly wished their lives were that simple. The truth was usually what men invented, Amreal would say. The two of them bound for Alingdor.
It would have been nice,
he thought somewhat wistfully.

Still, the evening surpassed expectations, one of the more pleasant in recent memory. They dined, the meal rich and filling, braised meat tender and not overly spiced, a medley of steamed greens lightly seasoned, and wine neatly flavored and balanced. Neither spoke much while they ate. For some reason it did not feel necessary. After pushing their plates forward, Luc leaving a gold coin on the table—he discovered he had no silver—a server ushered them to a room in the back, around a few winding corridors. More wine waited in a sitting room, if a little on the snug side, still cozy with a fire recently stoked. Luc, taking his rucksack, left to wash, more out of necessity than any true desire after the days on the road and the punishing weather, returning feeling his eyes a little heavier but much better overall. Mearl and Hireland stood in the corridor looking nonchalant. Neither glanced at him.

The split-view room was just what he had in mind, two chambers separated by the sitting room. Legs stretched out on a cushioned recliner, while Trian lounged in a soft robe. Hair now in ringlets around her doll-like face, she set his pulse racing. Beginning to rethink the entire affair, he found himself moving towards the fire, knowing there were worse things to fear than the unyielding darkness.

Himself for one.

“You worry too much, Luc,” Trian said, somehow guessing his thoughts. He was never quite sure how she did it. “You’re too hard on yourself, for one. Things have just begun. We have to give ourselves time to adjust.”

“Maybe,” he said reluctantly.

“Not maybe. You can’t worry about the past and the future.”

Searching the flames, sparks igniting in the air, he wondered if it was that simple. In the far north, while on the lookout for Vandil, the Sypher had come. That might have been the first time he had consciously accepted what he was. He may not have understood it, bound by unseen restraints, but it had happened. Now his mind stressed caution. What he had done outside of the Landing had nearly broken him. The feel of the ice in his veins, blistering, searing. The hate and rage. Eridian taunting him. Naeleis provoking.