“If she winds up pregnant, she’d better not come crying to me about it,” Kihrin muttered.
An old woman with piebald skin rushed to the entrance from a passage in the back. “Shut that door good, you hear me? That storm’s a killer, if ever I’ve seen one…” Her voice trailed off as she took in Star’s appearance.
Kihrin couldn’t blame her. Star could stop a stampede with a frown. Kihrin stood taller, but Star was twice as wide and rough as the weather outside. At the brothel where Kihrin grew up, he’d have hired Star as a bouncer on the spot.
The old woman gave Star a wink.
“Aye, Mare.” Star laughed as he pulled on a lock of his salt-and-pepper hair. “And you’re a fine sight to see too. We need pillows and a place of honor for Hamarratus. Sorry to trot in so late. We weren’t expecting the storm.” He touched forefingers to forehead, then bowed from the waist.
Kihrin had never heard Star string more than two sentences together before. He’d also never seen Star bow—not to a high lord, not to anyone.
Wait. Who is Hamarratus?1
“Oh, no problem at all.” The old woman pulled up short and turned her attention to Kihrin. “Right. At least you’re here. Get yourself into the shelter. She’s waiting for you. Best hurry while the stew’s hot.”
Kihrin lowered his pack to the hay-strewn ground. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s been a mistake. No one here’s expecting me.”
The old woman looked surprised. “You ain’t named Kihrin, then?”
The young man, who definitely was named Kihrin, managed not to pull out any weapons. Barely. “Who gave you that name?”
“Your woman said you’d be along.”2 She pointed down a tunnel leading into the hillside. “She’s waiting for you. Said I should watch for a tall foreign-looking fellow with yellow hair. And that’s you, right? I mean, you must be from the other side of the empire. Nobody local would dress like you.” Her eyes flicked down to his misha and kef as though they were a signed confession.
“My woman?” Kihrin exchanged a look with Star. Not all his female acquaintances were friends. “Nobody knows I’m here. Hell, I don’t even know where we are.” Kihrin’s hand found the pommel of the dagger at his belt.
“I’ll settle here, see to the horses,” Star offered.
“Sounds good. If you hear my dying screams, avenge me.”
Star shrugged. “Not sure how. You’re the one with the fancy sword.”
Kihrin didn’t seem armed with anything larger than a dagger. If the groom thought the comment strange, she didn’t say.
“Come on, then, foal.” She motioned to Star. “Help an old woman with the watering.”
Kihrin walked toward what he hoped was a tavern.
The passage led from the vaulted stone stable to a wide common room, nestled so far into the hillside it was underground. Fresh air somehow still circulated to flutter the multicolored banners hanging from the ceiling.
The rainbow hues reminded him of the Capital’s Royal Houses, but he suspected these colors had a different meaning here. The Royal Houses didn’t have a strong presence in Jorat; Kihrin thought that spoke well of Jorat.
Kihrin noticed three exits from the main room, besides the one he’d used to arrive. He had no way to know which of them—if any of them—led back outside, but he liked to keep his options open. The tavern also possessed a well-stocked bar, no obvious bouncer, and the aroma of roasting meat wafting out from a kitchen. Perfect.
Joratese townsfolk sheltered from the weather here and many were enjoying an afternoon meal. Kihrin forced himself not to stare; Joratese skin colors varied as much as their horses, with similar markings. Everyone wore their hair long and straight—loose or in intricate decorated braids. Some townsfolk shaved the sides of their heads so a single strip remained, mimicking equine manes. And all either sported plain earth-toned attire or bright clothing paired with all the jewelry they owned. Kihrin couldn’t tell if the difference in styles showed rank or fulfilled some other social role, but it seemed independent of gender.3
The townsfolk’s return stares were far less polite than his own. All chatter in the area died away.
“Kihrin?”
He turned to see a woman his age, standing by the fire.
Kihrin’s breath caught in his throat.
She was as Joratese as everyone else in the room; she was nothing like anyone else in the room. Everything about her was red—her skin burnt sienna, her eyes ruby. He’d imagined meeting her so often that seeing her in person struck him as ludicrous. A demon prince named Xaltorath had shown her image to Kihrin once, years before. Kihrin had never been able to push her memory away. She defined the meter by which he measured all beauty.
And she was there. She was right there.
Impossible. The idea he’d travel to Jorat and run into his dream woman at the first ale house defied credulity. The Goddess of Luck favored him more literally than most, but there were limits.
So this must be a trick. Bait.
He suddenly felt insulted; it wasn’t even subtle bait.
She gave him a smile that outshone the sun, to his dazzled eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here. Please, join us.” She gestured next to her. A thin, small western Quuros man sat with her, dressed in a priest’s robes and agolé. He looked like someone resigned to being an awkward third wheel.
She stopped smiling as Kihrin again placed a hand on his dagger.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Kihrin said. “I’m Kihrin. And you are?”
The joy drained from her eyes. “You don’t remember me.”
“I’ll repeat myself: we’ve never met.”
The surrounding people started grumbling. A man in the back even stood up. No doubt they felt the need to protect their own from a random outlander.
She turned to the tavern and made a shushing motion. “It’s fine. He’s my guest. Free drinks for the room on my tab.” That earned cheers, with laughter mixed in, as if she’d said something funny. Kihrin added it to his list of reasons to distrust the situation.
“Perhaps you might sit down,” said the priest. “We’ll introduce ourselves and explain matters.”
Kihrin moved his hand from the dagger. If she were a ruse, at least he had the small advantage of recognizing her nature. Only three entities in the universe knew what his dream girl looked like: his best friend, Teraeth; the demon Xaltorath; and the mimic Talon. Teraeth would never do something like this, but the other two? Neither of them was a friend.
But the priest struck him as an odd accompaniment to a demonic seduction. Why would Xaltorath or Talon have brought a chaperone?
Kihrin pulled a chair over and sat down.
The Joratese woman returned to her seat. “That didn’t go the way I’d hoped at all. We don’t have time for this.”
“I told you he wouldn’t remember,” the priest said. “Most never do.”
“You were introducing yourselves?” Kihrin pressed. “Let’s start there.”
“Yes,” the woman said. “Of course.” She placed a pitch-black hand on her chest.
Kihrin blinked. He hadn’t imagined it. She wasn’t wearing gloves; the color of her hands and face didn’t match.