The noise from the common room below drifted faintly through the open crack of the window, the thuds of tankards coming together with the sounds of dance and raucous laughter as the night deepened into drink. He slowly poured himself a glass of ale from the pitcher on the table, threw back his head, and drank it quickly. With a sigh he lowered the cup back onto the tray, next to the pitcher and the half-eaten loaf of bread. The road had been long, and he had traveled it far enough to lose what remained of his appetite since the Nemarrda had retreated back into the shadows of the Vanya Rassa, to hide and rebuild among the shadows of the trees, or so the bards sang. They’d left the cities ransacked, the blood of old battles drying along the outer walls of the city as the thieves picked their way clean through the dead’s possessions.
He was tired. Absentmindedly he ran his fingers over the handle of the dagger attached to his belt. He drew the blade from its sheath and held it before him in the dim light, his fingers tracing the damaged insignia upon the pommel.
From outside, the shouts announcing the changing of the guards upon the city’s outer wall reached him. He slid the dagger back in its sheathe and ran his fingers through his hair one more time to shake free the last dust of the road. They would be looking for her within the next hour once she failed to show up for her shift. He walked towards the window and shut it quietly, the sounds of the city outside and the bar below fading, before he turned to face the woman sprawled out across the bed. With the pitcher in hand he started forward towards her.
The ale was lukewarm but stung as it hit her face. Gasping, she let her training take over as she rolled to the left. She got halfway off the bed before the chain that was tethered around her right wrist stopped her. Her eyes flew open as she strained against the weight of the bed, the chain growing taunt with each struggle. She reached with her left hand for the dagger at her belt, debating on whether it would be easiest to kill her captor or to break the shackle around her wrist.
“How was your sleep, Duckling?”
She paused, her fingers hovering over the spot where her dagger normally rested only to find it missing. Her head pounded and seconds passed before her breathing to slowed back to normal. She turned slowly to face him, the chain clinking as she repositioned herself into a crouch on the bed.
The lantern on the far wall above the table flickered dimly and the torch light from the streets spilled across the room, placing shadows across the angles of his face. He wore his travels well despite the unkempt growth on his jaw and the coolness of his eyes as he watched her. His hair hung lank against his cheeks in need of a wash and he had not bothered to brush the dust from the road out of his clothes. The lining of his cloak resting over the chair next to him had been recently repaired, the leather of his boots was scratched but not as damaged as the pair he’d been wearing when she’d last seen him. She eyed her dagger resting on his hip. Her cloak was folded on the table beside him, and the rest of her weapons, as well as her insignia of the guard that sat on top of it.
Neither of them spoke.
He reached for the loaf of bread on the table, never taking his eyes off her. He bit into it slowly. “Would you like some?” he asked. She stared at him in disbelief. He raised a brow when she didn’t respond, and shrugged. He finished what remained of the loaf, and dusted the crumbs off his hands and onto his trousers.
She turned towards her bonds to examine them. The insignia of the Nemarrda curved along the shackle on her wrist, ending just before the chain that was bolted to it. The other end of the chain was looped around and underneath the heavy frame of the bed. It would be impossible to free the chain from either her wrist or the bed.
“You won’t get those off,” he said as he watched her, “Not without the key. Not even the King’s High Priest could find a way to remove those through either brute force or magic.”
“Where did you get these?” she asked, lifting the shackles for a closer inspection. She sighed when he did not respond.
“I’m not here for games, Amarin,” she said. “Let me go.” She tugged the chain once more for emphasis. He made no move towards her. Instead he crossed his legs and leaned back upon the table, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers.
“Why here?”
“Amarin…”
“Why here? Why a desolate border town on the edge of the Vanya Rassa with barely enough soldiers from the capital to support the guard?” He spat the name of the forest with distaste. “There are farmers and merchants upon the wall with swords they cannot use looking for demons in the night.” He nodded his head towards the window, out into the shadows of the city. From the window they could see the eastern guard tower and the soldiers that stood at attention against the dark of the forest. “The war is over now. There is nothing left but the nightmares that roam between the trees of the Vayna Rassa.” he whispered.
“It’s not over though, Amarin.”she whispered “Not yet.”. She turned her face away. He sighed, raised a hand and rubbed it to his temple. He uncrossed his legs and walked towards the bed. The sounds of his boots on the floor grew louder and the bed beside her shifted beneath his weight as he sat down.
“Einya, look at me,” he whispered. “It’s over. They won’t be back.”
“We can’t know that,” she said. He reached forward and gently tucked the strands of her hair covering her face behind her ear.
“I need to know. Why here?” His voice wavered slightly as the words caught in his throat.
“Why not?” she replied. “Does there have to be a reason?”
“Yes,” he whispered, “I need a reason.”
“What good would it do if I told you?” she sighed as she ran her fingers through her hair, yanking the strands free. “Please let me go. Unless you want the watch to be knocking on the door.”
“Is that a threat?” he teased. He reached for her left hand and when she didn’t resist he slowly threaded his fingers through hers. He leaned forward until their foreheads gently rested upon each other. She could feel his breath on her cheek, smell the ale he’d been drinking and the dust and blood that clung to him from outside.
“Einya,” he whispered, “Please tell me.” His lips moved softly against her cheek as he spoke and his hair fell forward against her face. She shuddered. He raised his head and they stared at each other. Slowly he moved and pressed his lips gently to hers. She tightened her grip on his hand and leaned forward into him. And when the moment was over, they sat there, eyes closed. The sound of their breath quietly filled the room.
She swallowed.
“I came here to pay my dues.” He opened his eyes. Her face was resigned and her eyes showed no fight left. At the hollow of her neck was the mark of the border guard, inked overtop of his name, as a reminder that she now no longer owed allegiance to him.
“It wasn’t your fault. It’s over now.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied.
“Einya…”
“I came here to pay what I owe.” she said, “And I will walk the wall until I have.” She removed her hand from his and met his eyes. He looked away.
“What would you have me do?” he whispered.
“I would have you release me, let me go and never come looking for me again.”
“Einya…”
“Please Amarin.” she whispered, “Let me go.” He closed his eyes. Then opened them. He rose stiffly and looked at her once more. The bridge of her nose had scarred after being broken recently, and her hair was darker than he remembered. She stared back at him with tears starting to form in the corners of her eyes.
He removed a key from his shift pocket and placed it on the bed in front of her. He made no move to touch her as she inserted it into the shackle lock. White light glowed faintly as the spell on them was released and the shackle dropped free of her. She winced softly and rubbed her fingers along the welts on her wrist.
Slowly she stood and walked towards the table. She reattached her sword to her belt, strapped the throwing knives onto her boots and fastened her cloak securely around her neck with her insignia. She took a leather tie from her pocket and tied her hair back at the nape of her neck. Once she was done she turned to face him.
“My dagger,” Her voice wavered as she held out her hand to him. He detached the sheath from his belt and handed it to her. Her fingers closed around it and brushed against his before she withdrew. She did not attach it to her belt but slipped it into a cloak pocket.
She did not say goodbye as she stepped past him, opened the door, and walked out of the room into the corridor. The door behind her remained open, the sounds of the common room quieter now as people wandered back to their beds. He heard the innkeeper yell out her name but could not make out her response over the shout of the changing of the guard as the torches on the wall flickered faintly against the dark.
