Her glare and Dom’s bulk were enough to send a few patrons scuttling for alternate seats, leaving them a nook of space to cram into. Far too tight for Dom’s liking, so he leaned against the wall instead, feeling like a statue, wishing he could be one.
Corayne dropped her hood as she sat, planting herself in the narrow corner between the table and the wall. She braced her back, taking some of the blade’s weight off her shoulders.
Dom expected Andry to slide in next to her, if his stolen glances were any indication. Instead the squire sidled up to him instead, his expression gentle but shadowed with exhaustion.
“How are the ribs?” he said, glancing at Dom’s side.
The flesh had healed over and caused him no more pain. But he could still feel the knife between his ribs, tearing as it went in and tearing as it went out.
“Better” was all Dom could say.
Andry didn’t push and offered a tight-lipped smile. “You’ll have a hell of a scar.”
“The Vedera don’t scar,” Dom said quickly, without thought. Then he remembered his face, the long, jagged lines he would never be rid of. Weapons and monsters of the Spindles did not cut Vederan flesh in the way he knew. “Not usually.”
At least I’m not alone in these, he thought, remembering Taristan’s face again. The lines down his cheek, torn by Jydi magic and Corayne’s own hand. He has scars to match me now.
It wasn’t like Squire Trelland to fidget. But his fingers twitched and his eyes darted, not to their table or even to the bar, where any young man might wish to stray. Instead he eyed the stairway, bending up and around to the bedrooms upstairs.
“If you’d like to retire, no one will stop you,” Dom said softly, looking down at the boy.
As in Ascal, Andry was torn between duty and desire. The squire will march and fight and carry on until he drops. Until someone gives him permission to stand back, and be a little less strong.
Dom felt a burning in his chest when he remembered Cortael at his age, and his same dogged, sometimes misguided resolve.
“You’re no use to anyone half-asleep, Trelland,” he said, putting a hand on the squire’s shoulder. “I’ll be sure to wake you if any trouble arises.”
A wash of relief fell over Andry and he sagged, the last few days pulling on his shoulders. He gave Dom a grateful nod, and with only a single glance back to their table, fled the common room. Though the squire was mortal, he had a grace to him that most did not, even with lanky limbs and overlong strides. He dodged tables and took the stairs two at a time, disappearing to the next floor with his pack and cloak.
Dom turned back to their corner, satisfied with himself. “We should do the same,” he said to the others, now sprawled around their pitted table. “Rest is what we all need right now.”
Four cups were slapped down on the table, sloshing with ale and foam. Dom sighed, watching the mortals eagerly reach for their drinks. Charlon grabbed the first, downing it in one gulp. Corayne was quick to follow.
She glanced up at Dom over the rim of her cup. “It’s not just sleep he’s after,” she said. “I don’t think taverns agree with him.”
“A squire who doesn’t like taverns or barmaids or drinking on another man’s coin,” Charlon laughed, gesturing for another beer. “Rare as a unicorn, that boy. Not that I’m exactly clear on what that boy is bringing to the table, if I’m being honest.”
“Andry Trelland is the reason we have the Spindleblade and even a chance of saving the realm,” Corayne answered coldly, her Cor eyes inscrutable.
Charlon raised a hand in placation. “All right, all right. Ca galle’ans allouve?” he muttered, raising an eyebrow at Sarn.
Dom failed to hide a smirk. He did not speak Madrentine, but by now he knew that Corayne most likely did. With the same twist of her lips, Sarn met his eye, sharing his sentiments for once.
Corayne’s face flushed, her grip closing on her drink. “I can think of nothing more ridiculous than being lovestruck in times such as these,” she said tightly. “And if you’d like to talk about me, I suggest you do it in Jydi. I can follow in almost everything else.”
Valtik cackled merrily into her cup.
And Charlon laughed too, his face flushing with surprise. He laid a hand on his chest, blue fingers bare. “Well, m’apolouge.” He sounded truly sorry.
Unless he can lie to faces as well as he lies on parchment.
“So, why Ibal?” Sarn said, her voice sharp, turning them back to the great task at hand. As if it could really be far from anyone’s mind. She took her first gulp of ale and pulled a face, setting the cup aside with an Ibalet curse.