“Ah,” the innkeeper said knowingly, his gaze on the
young mage not unsympathetic. “I’ve seen many of ’em in
my day. And I’ve seen many like yourself” – he looked at
the big warrior – “who have come here alone, with only a
packet of clothes and a battered spellbook or two all that
remains. Yer lucky, both of you, to have survived.”
The warrior nodded, though it didn’t appear – from the
haunted expression on his pale face and dark, pain-filled
eyes – that he considered his luck phenomenal. Returning to
his table, the warrior laid his hand on his brother’s heaving
shoulder, only to be rebuffed with a bitter snarl.
“Leave me in peace, Caramon!” Slegart heard the mage
gasp as the innkeeper came to the table, bearing the ale and
a pot of hot water on a tray. “Your worrying will put me in
my grave sooner than this cough!”
The warrior, Caramon, did not answer, but sat down in
the booth opposite his brother, his eyes still shadowed with
unhappiness and concern.
Setting down the tray, Slegart tried his best to see the
face covered by the hood, but the mage was huddled near
the fire, the red cowl pulled low over his eyes. The mage
did not even look up as the innkeeper laid the table with an
unusual amount of clattering of plates and knives and mugs.
The young man simply reached into a pouch he wore tied to
his belt and, taking a handful of leaves, handed them
carefully to his brother.
“Fix my drink,” the mage ordered in a rasping voice,
leaning wearily against the wall.
Slegart, watching all this intently, was considerably
startled to note that the skin that covered the mage’s slender
hand gleamed a bright, metallic gold in the firelight!
The innkeeper tried for another glimpse of the mage’s
face, but the young man drew back even farther into the
shadows, ducking his head and pulling the cowl lower over
his eyes.
“If the skin of ‘is face be the same as the skin of ‘is
hand, no wonder he hides himself,” Slegart reflected,
wishing he had turned this strange, sick mage away –
money or no money.
The warrior took the leaves from the mage and dropped
them in a cup. He then filled it with hot water.
Curious in spite of himself, the innkeeper leaned over
to catch a glimpse of the mixture, hoping it might be a
magic potion of some sort. To his disappointment, it
appeared to be nothing more than tea with a few leaves
floating on the surface. A bitter smell rose to his nostrils.
Sniffing, he started to make some comment when the door
blew open, admitting more snow, more wind, and another
guest. Motioning one of the slatternly barmaids to finish
waiting on the mage and his brother, Slegart turned to greet
the new arrival.
It appeared – from its graceful walk and its tall, slender
build – to be either a young human male, a human female,
or an elf. But so bundled and muffled in clothes was the
figure that it was impossible to tell sex or race.
“We’re full up,” Slegart started to announce, but before
he could even open his mouth, the guest had drifted over to
him (it was impossible for him to describe its walk any
other way) and, leaning out a hand remarkable for its
delicate beauty, laid two steel coins in the innkeeper’s hand
(remarkable only for its dirt).
“A place by the fire this night,” said the guest in a low
voice.
“I do believe a room’s opened up,” announced Slegart to
the delight of the goblinish humans, who greeted this
remark with coarse laughs and guffaws. Even the warrior
grinned ruefully and shook his head, reaching across the
table to nudge his brother. The mage said nothing, only
gestured irritably for his drink.
“I’ll take the room,” the guest said, reaching into its
purse and handing two more coins to the grinning
innkeeper.
“Very good. . . .” Noticing the guest’s fine clothes,
made of rich material, Slegart thought it wise to bow. “Uh,
what name . . . ?”
“Do the room and I need an introduction?” the guest