The door opened. Brisk air ushered in a tall man in a worn leather doublet, martial at a glance even before his green eyes lit with recognition.
“Mavromichaeli Bassiano, by all the Saints.” He strode forward with the confidence of one seldom refused, blonde curls bouncing. “I thought you’d gone to Avilogne.”
Mav’s head lifted, and his expression shifted from wariness to a forcibly pleasant smile. “Gerant Trimbeaux.”
The man clasped Mav’s forearm in a soldier’s greeting. “Still alive, then.”
“Regrettably.”
Gerant laughed and let his gaze drift to me, widening at my battered gown. “And who is this?”
He bowed in greeting, a curt dip of his head that spoke of habit more than courtesy. His cloak shifted with the movement, revealing a white patch sewn near the shoulder—two hands, palms cupped together, stitched in gold thread.
The emblem caught my eye. It was not a crest I recognized, nor any of the sigils I had learned during my years at court. I tucked the curiosity away for later.
“Ah, yes,” Mav said through a strained grin. “This is Quinn, my…” His mouth remained open for a moment, as if pondering how to possibly explain how he and I had become acquainted. “This is Quinn.”
Gerant playfully elbowed Mav’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me the great Mavromichaeli has finally settled down.”
I arched a brow, tone properly neutral. “We are traveling companions.”
“Is that what they call it now?” Gerant winked and sat next to Mav, uninvited.
Mav did not correct him, and I did not reward the indecency of his suggestion with a reply.
His grin faded to something gentler as he stroked his graying beard, holding Mav’s gaze a breath longer than comfort allowed. “You know, not everyone agrees with what happened. You could come back?—”
“I’m not coming back,” Mav said, his voice slicing through the thought before it had the chance to fully form.
Gerant leaned back, unfazed. “You could at least explain yourself. The truth might not change their minds, but?—”
“There is no truth they’d care to hear,” Mav retorted, calm though his tone mimicked the closing of a door.
The earlier warmth cooled as Gerant’s eyes narrowed. “Fair enough. Please, watch your back, Bassiano. Not everyone from those days would be pleased to find you in this town—or alive for that matter.” He stood, lingering with a hand on the table, and flicked a look toward me. “Keep him in line, sweetheart. He’s good in a fight, but trouble always has a way of finding him.”
“I shall bear it in mind,” I said.
Gerant gave Mav one last searching look before clapping him on the shoulder and striding out of the Withering Whistle and into the pallid light. We finished breakfast without another word. I watched him over the rim of my bowl, my mind tucking away the warning, the name, and the jagged edge that crept into his voice when he spoke of not returning.
Wind nipped at my cheeks as we stepped back into the street. Whatever shadow had crossed Mav’s face, it was not mine to bring to the light. Nevertheless, the words Gerant had spoken hummed at my temples.
Quiet stretched for several blocks before I broached conversation. “An old friend of yours?”
Mav’s stride didn’t slow. “Something like that.”
“How intentionally vague.”
“That’s the idea.” His tone was light, but there was steel beneath it.
“He seemed surprised to see you.”
“Most people are.”
We went a few steps farther over uneven stone. “Earlier,” I began, “the patch on Gerant’s cloak—white, with cupped hands. What does it signify?”
Mav glanced over his shoulder as if to confirm Gerant was out of earshot. “He’s a Hands,one of the lower order magics, a healer. The patch marks his gift.”
I frowned. “Why display it?”
