“A bit prejudiced, no?” Algar mumbles under his breath.
“Never understood how people like you live with yourselves,” Rynthea says.
Thane drops his folded arms and pushes to a stand so he can match her glare.
“Go on, then,” she challenges, clenching her fists and smirking. That action alone makes the veins in her arms bulge.
“Oh, come on now.” Algar springs up. “Let’s not get hostile, friends. Rynthea, we’re not looking for trouble, and I promise you this sorcerer knows when and where to behave. Give us a few and we’ll go. I’ll even keep my eye on the sundial.”
Rynthea doesn’t back down. Neither does Thane. They stare into each other’s eyes, Thane with his jaw ticking, and Rynthea with that challenging smirk. Something tells me she loves confrontation. Based on the buffers and wrist gauntlets she wears, I would bet good coin on it. I would also bet that she’s won every fight she’s ever been in…or every fight she’s had to finish because of sorcerers she couldn’t stand.
“Rynthea, Torjack tells me Kamtaur Inn might be closing soon?” Algar steps between her and Thane. After a handful of seconds, she finally wrenches her gaze away from the sorcerer. Algar is good at that—interfering. Changing the subject. A proper mediator.
“That’s not definitive, and I really wish you’d stop saying that shit, Tor.” Rynthea pins her brother with intense eyes.
“Well, it’s true, Rynthea.” Torjack throws his hands in the air in a guiltless gesture. “Kamtaur is going to shit because we’re too close to Ruvain, and I’ve reviewed the books. If we don’t pack it in now and sell it while it still has some dignity, this place will crumble.”
“It’s really that bad, huh?” Algar murmurs as Zephra climbs onto his shoulder.
Rynthea exhales as she takes a step back and plants a hand on her waist. “It’s…not the best it’s been. Business has declined since Ruvain has started doing whatever they want to the beastials again. Couple that with Torjack’s trips to the healer, and our coins are sparse. We’ve had to cut down to two kegs of ale per day.”
“His trips to the healer?” I look from her to Torjack. He seems completely healthy to me. The only reason a being takes frequent trips to a healer is if they’re injured, sick, or born with an incurable disease.
“Stiff Ditheria,” Torjack answers with a shrug. “Sometimes my spine locks up on me. Occasionally, my hands won’t work for hours and seizures take over. There are days when I’m trapped in bed because my legs are utterly useless.”
“Oh,” I murmur. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“Ah, it’s all right. We can’t all be perfect, can we? If that were the case, Orvena and Xaimur never would’ve gotten into feuds and separated themselves as gods. Besides, the healers help—oh, and Rynthea created a medicine that eases the pain whenever we can’t make it to the healer.”
“Don’t worry, Zaira.” Algar reaches over and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Torjack’s a tough one.”
I give a half-hearted smile. It amazes me how the frailest of people smile the brightest. I can’t help but gain more respect for Torjack.
“Can I get you something to eat, Zaira?” Rynthea asks. “I just made a pot of vegetable stew, and I have some chocolate oat crisps if you’d like some. On the house.” She winks.
“If it’s not too much trouble, yes please.”
“None at all.”
“In that case, I’d love some. Thank you, Rynthea.”
She nods and turns away, her hooves thumping on the wood.
As she slips through the swinging kitchen door, a man enters through the front door of the inn wearing a gray cloak and hood on his head. Tensing, Thane watches the stranger stroll through and take a seat on the opposite side of the room.
Penju leaves the counter to approach the man and take his order. When Penju returns to the bar, the man shifts his stare to us. He scans Algar, Torjack, and me with disinterest, but when he locks on Thane, his eyes narrow with recognition.
Oh, fuck.
A dagger materializes in Thane’s hand as he uses his other to pull his mask up to the bridge of his nose. Oblivious, Torjack and Algar resume conversation again, discussing Zephra’s fur and eating habits.
“Thane,” I whisper. “Do you know him?”
“No.” He grips the handle of his dagger tighter. “But I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.”
Penju returns to the man and sets down a mug of ale on his table. The stranger picks it up and takes a few deep gulps. Maybe he recognizes Thane from somewhere else—like Redclaw or the Scraps. Maybe he saw him in action and is trying to figure out if he’s a shadow assassin? Either way, I’m relieved that he doesn’t bother setting his sights on us again.
Rynthea returns with a wooden bowl full of stew, a cup of water, and a tray of chocolate oat crisps. My belly grumbles when she places all of it on the table before me. I don’t even realize how hungry I am until I see the hearty meal and inhale the delicious aromas.
