Page 72

The inn stood a little apart from the other buildings, one story of solid stone with a thatch roof and a wooden sign hanging above the door. A stable yard opened to one side, already half in shadow. A boy in a rough tunic looked up from sweeping as we rode in, then hurried forward to take the reins.

Torin swung down carefully, with a groan, favoring his side, and came around to help me dismount even though I didn’t need it. Dude poked his head out of the saddlebag, blinked at the new surroundings, and gave a questioning meow.

I stood for a moment just breathing. After the tension of Dunstaffnage, our arguments, and the long ride, the ordinary sounds of an inn yard — horses shifting in their stalls, a woman’s voice calling from inside, the creak of the sign in the breeze — felt comforting. It would be quiet and ordinary, and we desperately needed both.

I was looking forward to a bedroom with a door, where monks weren’t barging in and a king wasn’t oppressively nearby.

While I was scanning the space, Torin spoke quietly to the stable boy, pressed a coin into his hand, and then dislodged Dude from the bag and told him to go find dinner for himself.

He loaded a few of our bags up on his shoulder. “Come, mo leannan, we’ll get a room and a meal. A few cups of ale will take the ache from our arses.”

“I need it.” I pretended to walk with bowed legs as I followed him toward the door of the inn.

Except all my hope was dashed. This was not the kind of inn I wanted or needed, this was a terrible disappointment.

I had expected medieval, but this was way worse.

We passed through the front door, blinking in the dim light, to a low and long common room. It had a packed-earth floor that had been worn into uneven hollows. Smoke from the central hearth hung thick under the dark ceiling beams.

There was one single window that was small and unglazed, covered only by a wooden shutter that let in more draft than light. Dust spiraled in front of it.

The air smelled of stale ale, wet wool, vomit, and pisspots,woodsmoke, and too many bodies.

I stood behind Torin’s left arm, peering around from behind as his eyes swept the room. I heard him mutter, “Och nae.”

There were a few rough tables and benches filling the space.

Two men sat near the fire with wooden cups, talking in low voices.

They glanced up, eyes barely focused, when we entered. One, whose head was wobbling drunkenly, yelled, “What be yer clan?”

Torin grunted. “Campbell.”

The man raised his mug and then they both went back to their drink.

I whispered, “Do they have private rooms?”

“Daena look like it.”

The innkeeper, a heavy-shouldered man with a stained apron approached, and he and Torin spoke back and forth for a few moments.

Torin looked around the dim, smoky room, then at me, and explained, “He says we can sleep on the floor here, after the evenin’ meal is done. I daena ken if tis comfortable, but we will be near the hearth. For a little more coin he says we can hae the stable.”

“It costs more to sleep in the stable?”

“Aye, he says it will hae cleaner straw than in here. And we will be closer tae our horses. What dost ye want?”

“I can’t decide, both sound like they suck, you decide.”

The bruise on his face seemed darker in this light.

He said tae the innkeeper, “We will take the stable.”

I was good with this decision, sleeping on a dirt floor among strangers felt unbearable.

Torin paid for us to sleep by our horses, and what could only be a terrible meal, and then the innkeeper passed us the mugs of ale and we took a seat on one of the benches.

Torin explained, “The stable will be cold and smell of horses, but at least we winna hae tae smell the farts of the two drunks over there.”