Fuming, with a cold in his bones that has nothing to do with Lyrisenia’s winter, Evain bends over and picks the red scarf up from the ground. He shoves it in his pocket and trudges towards town.
***
The town proves to be a community of about two hundred living in a cluster of stout homes. When Evain doesn’t find anything that looks like a tavern, he knocks on a door at random. A plump woman with a hunter’s belt answers the door, and her wariness subsides when Evain introduces himself in Lyrisenian. She gives him directions and information, including that the town is named quite simply Snowtown, and what passes for a tavern is Old Sarah’s house down the street. But Old Sarah doesn’t take guests, so Evain should try Birchven down the street for a spare room.
The hunter is friendly, but when a plump little boy peeks in from the other room, she tells him sternly to go back until the guest is gone. After giving directions to Birchven’s house, she closes the door firmly in Evain’s face.
An hour later, the man called Birchven is several gold richer, and Evain has shelter from the cold. The house is one of the larger places in Snowtown, given that Birchven apparently lives alone, and the promised spare room is an actual second bedroom, not the closet Evain expected. A hefty fireplace squats in the wall between the sitting room and kitchen.
Evain sits at the kitchen table, sipping a tankard of Old Sarah’s brew while Birchven readies the room. He barely tastes the rich stout, but it’s something to do as he tries not to think about Leth.
“The room’s ready.” Birchven emerges into the kitchen. Somewhere in his forties, he’s a few inches shorter than Evain. Soft around the edges, with a pleasant smile and nice calluses on his hands. Sitting across from Evain, he pulls out a pipe. “Do you mind?”
Evain waves his hand, and soon the little kitchen fills with faintly spiced smoke. There’s a hint of sweetness unique to Lyrisenian pipe blends. The scent knocks Evain’s memories back a few centuries, when the pleasures of the human world were pure novelties. When things hurt less, because he cared less.
“Any paladins in town recently?” Evain runs his fingers over the lip of his tankard. “Varans or Sephinians?”
Birchven’s eyes follow Evain’s fingers. Slow, easy attraction fills the room, as sweet as the smoke. “Forget recently. I don’t think we’ve ever had paladins in Snowtown.” Birchven tilts his head up and puffs out a wobbly ring. “Not that I’d recognize them if I saw them.”
“You may get your chance soon,” Evain says. “Most of them are fairly dull, though.”
“Nothing new is dull in winter.” Birchven chuckles. “Are those your friends you said you’d split from?”
“Don’t tell them I called them dull,” Evain says with a habitual smile.
Evain has already arranged to stay for a week, though he isn’t sure he will. The plan was originally to wait and see if Leth’s prayer had any effect, and whether any of their friends showed up per divine guidance. But Evain doesn’t know what to do now. He doesn’t want to leave, but he doesn’t want to stay. His mind is too blank and hazy to latch onto strategy. How can he just go back to sealing rifts, like nothing happened?
Whatever he does, he has to stay at least one night in Snowtown to recover from breaking the array. Maybe he’ll be able to think again in the morning.
“Can I get you another?” Birchven points his pipe at Evain’s cup.
Magic simmers under Evain’s skin. Not nearly as heady a rush as he’s used to now, nothing like Leth’s addictive lust. But Evain could intensify Birchven’s desires if he wanted. He just needs to unbutton his shirt. Roll up his sleeves. Lean forward a little. He probably should, if he wants to recover more quickly. Part of him doesn’t really want to recover, though. He wants to wallow in weakness, like a penance.
“Still working on this one.” Evain slouches back in his chair and takes a sip. “I saw a few big campsites out in the woods. Did any other strangers pass by recently?”
Birchven squints. “A pack of foreigners camped outside town last week, aye. If you’re looking for weird folk, I can’t help you, but I can point out the hedgewitch’s house in the morning. A few of the Charaini visited her.”
“You’re magnificently kind.” Evain’s getting a good sense for the people of Snowtown already. Kind but careful. Welcoming but cautious. Evain won’t infringe on Birchven’s hospitality by querying further. “What’s Snowtown like in summer, anyway?”
Birchven cocks his head but takes to the change of topic easily. He talks a lot, and Evain mostly listens. When Birchven asks about Evain’s travels, Evain turns the conversation to the waterfalls of Ellaroc. Clear cascades over purple stone, breathtaking green and sky-blue flowers clinging to every damp surface. Sweating heat lingering through toothless winters. Stories Evain has told dozens of times before, that have nothing to do with ruins and bruises and Leth.
Evain thinks he’s making a pretty good show of it, until Birchven sets aside his pipe and says, “You know, if you’ve gotten used to southern winters, the nights here are warmer with two to a bed.”
Suddenly Evain can’t ignore the yawning emptiness inside him anymore. The overwhelming feeling he can’t quite name. However much he talks, however much power he takes in, he can’t fix himself. Bedding Birchven would be simple, but Evain doesn’t want simple. He only wants Leth.
Besides. Birchven wouldn’t want to bed him either, if he knew Evain’s true nature.
A shadow must cross Evain’s face, because Birchven picks up his pipe again. “Sorry, sorry. Don’t mind me.”
Evain shakes himself, and paints on another smile. Not as bright as usual. “No need to apologize. I know it sounds like an excuse, but I’m committed elsewhere already.”
Birchven considers, then laughs off his embarrassment. “No surprise there, a face like yours. Let me know if you need an extra quilt, then.”
“Thank you,” Evain says, then falls silent. He can’t think of anything witty to add, or any more stories to tell.
***
Still mostly dressed, Evain sprawls out on Birchven’s comfortable spare bed and stares up at the rafters. His red silk robe is still packed on Daziroth, unless Leth has dumped it out somewhere in the forest. Evain’s chest aches. Not about the robe—he’s ruined hundreds of silk robes over the centuries. But imagining Leth’s face as he spills out the saddle bags. Twisted into anger? Would he shout? Or would he stand silently, blank and cold?
