The Lioness

The three elves at the bar gave her sideways glances and edged away. These were, indeed, hunters with the spattered blood of recent kills on their leathers. One dropped some coins onto the bar and made a point of leaving. He headed for the side door that led to the privy. Kerian’s cheek flushed now with anger. These two at the bar also knew her! Not well, surely, but in times past they’d greeted her in this very room fairly and passed the time with news of weather, crops and hunting. Now they treated her coldly.

“Hello Bueren,” she said, low. “What’s going on? If I were a kender I couldn’t have gotten a less cheerful welcome here.”

Bueren nodded. “If you were the lightest of light-fingered kender, Keri, people might have been happier. Are you here looking for Iydahar?”

Kerian nodded.

“I figured.” She wiped her perspiring face with the back of her hand, pushing rosy gold hair back into the red kerchief meant to keep it from her face. She drew a mug of ale and put it on the bar. “Look,” she said, her voice dropping low. “People are getting strange around here lately. Things are getting strange. The forest is… unsettled. There’ve been Knights all over the road today. How have you managed to miss them?”

Ale froth on her lips, the rich taste warm in her mouth, Kerian chose her words carefully. “I saw some earlier, but it was only a patrol.”

“There’ve been others, riding up and down the Qualinost road.”

Near the hearth, the sleeping hound woke, sniffed his companion, and stood to stretch and bow. The second growled. Nayla Firethorn snapped her fingers. Instantly, the two settled. Bueren left the bar and came back with a laden tray, three plates piled high. Kerian’s stomach growled again, painfully, as Bueren passed her to set the plates before Nayla, Haugh Daggerhart and Stanach.

“What are you doing here anyway, alone and dressed like that?”

Ignoring her question, Kerian took from her pocket the polished bronze coin Stanach had given her. She set it on the bar and nodded toward the three just fallen silent over their meals. “I’ll have what they’re having, all right?”

Bueren winked. “Put it back in your pocket, Keri. I’ll fix you up.”

“But—”

“Never mind. Sit.” She ducked into the kitchen again and returned with another tray, this one host to a deep bowl of creamy dill and carrot soup, a plate of venison smothered in spicy gravy, a crock of butter and a fat hunk of brown oat bread. She unloaded the tray and whisked utensils from behind the bar. “Eat. We’ll talk later.”

Kerian ate. The bar was suddenly quiet, empty of few sounds other than the crackling fire in the hearth, the indistinguishable murmur of conversation between the dwarf and the two elves, the whisper of one of the little girls to her parents, and the small noises Kerian’s spoon, fork, and knife made against the plate and bowl. Kerian felt eyes upon her, the sense of being watched like a warning itch between the shoulder blades.

In the silence and firelight, surrounded by the good scents from the kitchen and the comfortable sounds of Bueren Rose going about her work, Kerian applied herself to Jale’s delicious soup and then to the venison. She enjoyed the ale; she layered the bread thickly with sweet cream butter. Hunger abated quickly, and with that satisfaction came a sudden realization of how very tired she was.

Her muscles ached, so did her head. She felt the bruise of every fall, the sting of scraped knees and palms. The muscles across her shoulders felt heavy and dull; those in the small of her back complained at the least motion. Kerian lifted her hands to brush away the tickling strands of her hair and caught the scent of herself, sour with the sweat of a day’s hard travel.

As hunger had gnawed her belly, the sudden understanding of how far she’d come from home now ached in Kerian’s heart. In miles, she had not come far. In hours, only a day’s distance, yet here she sat, treated like a stranger in a village she’d been used to entering freely, eyed with suspicion in a tavern to which she’d always been welcomed warmly.

Kerian looked around her with small careful glances, down the length of the oaken bar. For an instant her eyes met that of one of the hunters who had so pointedly moved away from her. From the shadows, he watched ner. When their eyes met, he quickly looked away.

Bueren Rose went around the great room, igniting torches set in black iron brackets on the walls. Abuerenalanthaylagaranlindal, her parents had named the barmaid. Rose of Summer’s Passing. She was a pretty girl, linsome^[sic!] and smiling, locks of her rosy gold hair curling around her temples and cheeks. Since childhood, friends called her Bueren Rose, deeming it a far better name. Summer Rose. One of the elves at the bar murmured something to her; his companion reached out and pulled her close. Bueren laughed, leaned in close and whispered something. Startled, he let her go, and she went about her work with a toss of her head and a knowing laugh.