Loriana’s journal. There had been so many nights when he’d lain in bed watching her write in that book until he fell asleep. But those times, like everything else about his fiancée, were only memories now. Memories that haunted his every step, his every thought.
“I won’t,” he said. “Burn it for all I care.”
His grip tight around the bottle neck, he left the study. Out in the hall, he uncorked the bottle again, staring at the clear liquid through the glass.
Loriana had drowned. It was time he drowned, too.
Bottle to his lips, he gulped the liquor down.
4
Toran
Ale, rum, and Keslo liquor.
Toran poured each into a large pitcher and, swirling the three liquids until they became one frothy concoction, tossed the drink down his throat. It hissed and burned, a snake fighting his inevitable swallow. The mixture settled in his stomach and an easy warmth tapped along his limbs.
He brought the blurring mug up to eye level before licking the dribble from the side. Delicious.
Toran could recognize he was drunk—no sober person would choose to drink, let alone enjoy, the taste of all three liquors together—but he didn’t particularly care. Not caring was a new thing for him. He found it much more appealing than his other option.
Besides, Keslo liquor—imported from the Kono Islands—was supposed to be something of a delicacy. No matter how it came, he wasn’t about to let it sit undrinken.
Undrunken?
Undrunk?
Toran shook his head and took another swig, letting the concoction stew in his mouth a bit before swallowing. The Guard’s Pub was crowded for a Monday night—littered with as many people as the forest had trees.
He’d been here since the pub opened at eleven this morning, but he’d been drinking since the King had brought up Loriana. After leaving the King’s study—sans journal—he’d nursed the bottle of Kesloliquor until the sun came up. Then he’d passed out and, upon waking, had come here to find more to drink.
A low ringing in his ears surged, and he listed to the side.
“Watch it,” the man next to him grunted, momentarily stopping his humming to curse Toran out.
He raised his mug in salute before guzzling down the rest of his drink. The liquors roiled in his stomach. He turned his head, letting out a long, low belch in the humming man’s face.
The man shoved Toran behind him. The rest of the people surrounding him did the same until he found himself halfway across the pub, the bar completely out of sight.
Shit.
Now his mug was empty, his flask was empty, and that promise of another drink from the bar was fading fast. He needed a drink before the King’s words came creeping back to mind.
Swinging his empty mug jovially, he approached a table. There were six guards seated around it. He didn’t care about them. He cared only for the three untouched pitchers of ale clustered together in the middle.
Toran slammed his empty mug down on the table—ignoring how, as soon as he let go of the handle, it clattered to the floor. He placed a hand on one man’s shoulder and looked around at the surprised faces surrounding the ale. He was smiling. He was sure of it.
“Friends,” he said to the men and women, leaning down to join their circle. He was sure that was what he said. In fact, he’d bet all the alcohol in his body it was what he said. Yet they looked at him as though he’d vomited into each of their laps.
“Leave,” the woman to Toran’s right said.
“Ah, come on,” he protested, smiling wide at her. He’d lost track of the number of times someone told him he had a great smile. For some reason, he never used it to his advantage when sober. He was pretty stupid sober. “We’re all guards here. We all work for the King. That makes us friends, right?”
Their uniforms did not invoke camaraderie. Despite being completely identical, the black-and-red coat and black slacks had never helped Toran blend in. At least here in the pub, few recognized him, and fewer paid him any mind.
The man directly opposite him stood. “She said leave.”
Toran only kept grinning. “What’s your rank?”
