If only.
Here Martin found himself in the land claimed by the Lady, with her fine temple on the hill in the high city. None of her followers strayed to the lower city, where the humble folks served the Father.
Father and Lady. The Father taught service to others, hard work, and simple living, like the people who served him. The Lady taught pleasures of all kinds, living in the moment, surrounding oneself with luxury.
The reason the poor didn’t pray to her.
Oh, how afraid he’d been of the Lady and her Chosen.
Now Martin hid in plain sight, walked in the temple gardens nearly daily during his patrols, passed many of her servants, and even spoke with some regularly, particularly the energetic Cere.
None pointed a finger.
At least not yet.
The locals’ tales caused him to wonder about the Lady. It was said that she and the Father had been one once before they split upon economic lines. Few claimed to have seen her. Few enough that Martin doubted her existence. But her followers roamed the land, putting to death any found guilty of the sin of magery, which the Lady forbade.
Of course, none claimed to have seen the Father, either, and he’d been none too clear about his stance on mages.
The Lady’s magnificent temple brought pilgrims from afar, wanting a glimpse of the rumored opulence. Their money flooded the upper city, giving the city officials reason to extol her virtues.
Who wouldn’t rather worship in pleasure than in self-sacrifice? The Father never stood a chance.
Though the goddess hadn’t personally struck a blow, she might as well have killed Martin’s family herself. Why did she hate magic? What had magic wielders ever done to her?
Martin turned on his stool to survey the tavern. A half dozen round, rough-hewn oak tables stood in neat rows, each surrounded by six chairs. Three tables boasted full capacity, while two more held parties of three. The last remained empty.
Herbs hung drying by the hearth, adding to the scent so different from anyplace he’d ever been before but still bringing thoughts of the mountains and the herbs his gran dried in the rafters for medicines.
How gloomy Martin had become tonight. He’d not experienced a bout of homesickness in several fullmoons. Perhaps he should find a suitable man for hire for the eve.
The door opened, and a waft of cooler air swept into the tavern, bringing the scent of rain. All troubling thoughts fled his mind. Martin breathed a bit easier. Tall and sturdily built, the aproned man entering the room struck Martin as familiar. Ridiculous. He’d never set foot in this tavern before. Perhaps he’d crossed paths with the handsome man in the marketplace or on some city street.
The tavernkeeper himself, though Martin couldn’t say how he knew. Maybe he reached a logical conclusion, the way the barmaid acknowledged the new arrival with a smile; how the patrons calling out to him showed reverence.
Martin’s slight frame had grown into a stocky build and broad shoulders that often aided him during hunts and sparring with his fellow guards. Yet those traits, along with blond hair and blue eyes, set him apart from many locals. However, some of the wealthy in the upper city boasted light hair due to cosmetics. Since his time here, his hair had darkened from gold to wheat, but not enough to let him blend with the lower city. Thus, “stranger.” In a harbor town, strangers were never in short supply, though few stayed beyond a handful of days.
In the upper city, women and men alike avoided the sun, while most lower-city dwellers had darker hair, eyes, and complexion.
The tavernkeeper was no exception. He didn’t fail to capture Martin’s attention with a trim figure and laughing eyes. Those eyes. Something about those eyes. The moment Martin tried to puzzle out the niggling sense of familiarity, his thoughts skittered away. What had he been thinking?
Martin greeted the tavernkeeper with a brief smile. Now there was a man he’d like in his bed this night.
The tavernkeeper nodded, returning the smile, only to have his attention called away by boisterous patrons.
Martin tuned out the crowd’s thoughts surrounding him with some effort, yet from the tavernkeeper—nothing. No flicker of emotion, no traces of thought. Calm, amid a whirlwind.
A touch of disappointment lodged in Martin’s heart. Something within him demanded he get closer. What a ridiculous notion. Someone like himself, destined to hide in shadows, attracted to an honest, hardworking tavernkeeper. Martin’s honed instincts said that much about the man.
He shook his head at the fanciful notions. His family legacy fated him to keep to himself.
Twice since arriving in the city, he’d witnessed the murder of innocents who’d been branded mages. Neither one contained any magic, but rivals coveted their businesses, paying to grease the right palms.
Still, the dark brown hair, revealing glints of copper and gold in the lantern and firelight, the eyes dark as midnight, and the bunched muscles flexing in the tavernkeeper’s back, captured Martin’s attention.
An image came to mind. A dream?
Dreams were often messages, but if he’d dreamed of this man, they’d surely met before, and Martin’s desires conjured images during long nights alone in his room. Yet, once again, the harder he focused on the illusive thoughts, the more they evaded his grasp.
