The sun had long sunk behind the tree line when she stalked toward the front door of the Inn. The night birds began their haunting lullabies as the firebugs danced to their melodies. She would normally indulge a moment to appreciate their song, but she found herself suddenly and terribly tired. Tonight felt heavy with purpose. She breathed deeply the night scents and took a step into the inn.
The front room was dimly lit and all but abandoned, save for the innkeeper mopping up a spill near the hearth of a dwindling fire. He glanced up as she approached, his face hardening at the sight of her. She bowed her head in salute, dropped a bag of silver coin at the end of the bar and made her way to the stairs to find a spare room.
“Wasn’t sure you’d be making it our way this go ‘round, lass,” the innkeeper called, resting his chin on the handle of the mop, waiting for her to turn.
“Ye lack faith, Spanks. You should know me better by now.” She did turn to toss a smile his way, and though it didn’t quite reach her eyes, they gave nothing away.
“When’s yer deadline?”
“I have until the solstice festival. Plenty of time.”
“And the bounty?” He pressed. “Are they plannin’ on compensatin’ you properly?”
She sighed. “No less than normal, I’m sure.”
“I just wanna be sure you’ve considered whether the risk is worth the reward, lass.”
She spun around sharply, the day’s wear now evident in her eyes. “Spanks, I’d really hate to suggest that you piss off, but the risks I take with my job are none of your business.”
“What you bring into my inn is completely my business.”
“Spanks –”
“That thing,” he spat as he pointed fiercely at her pack, suddenly agitated, “is nothin’ but trouble, Baneheart.” He stormed to the foot of the stairwell, his onyx eyes piercing her hard exterior. “Do ye bring trouble here?”
“Trouble won’t find us tonight, Spanks. You have my word.”
She raised her fingers to stroke his cheek reassuringly. He caught them hard in his calloused hand. He wasn’t a violent man, she knew. His heart was soft, even if his face was menacing. The scar trailing from his right eye down across the bridge of his nose to the opposing cheek was usually enough to keep residents in their place under his roof, and if it wasn’t enough, he had a tongue sharper than a sailor’s. But beneath the rough exterior and gritty black hair that seemed to cover every inch of him pulsed a heart like soft, sweet chocolate – as well as a protective side to him that pulled at her. Protective and loving, like the father she sometimes wished she’d known.
“Will ye heal, child?”
“I will. It’s mostly no more than shallow flesh wounds.”
“That shoulder, lass…” He trailed off, unable to hide his concern.
“Yer sweet to worry.” This time she did pat his cheek affectionately. “I know what I need to do.” She started up the stairs again, leaving no room for him to fret over her condition. “Don’t wake me for breakfast, Spanks,” she remarked over her shoulder. “Let me know what I owe you for the medical supplies in the morning, hey?”
The weathered man sighed after her, knowing he could do or say no more, and resumed his duties mopping. She was a grown woman, he had to remind himself. And far more capable than her opponents would suspect. Comforting himself with these thoughts, he whistled an uppity tune to drown out the silence of the inn.
She closed the door behind her, and fought every urge to sink to the floor and let the night envelop her. She stripped off her bow and quiver, her daggers and long sword, and slid them carefully beneath the cot that sat in the far corner of the room. Peeling her damaged armor and bloody tunic away carefully, she winced as the pain in her shoulder intensified. It had scabbed over late in the afternoon, sticking to her tunic painfully. She’d swallowed the ache, pushed it to the far reaches of her mind, so as to reach her destination. Now that she was still, the pain bit back with hateful force, threatening to drag her under. She did not yield. Instead she made her way swiftly to a basin of warm water, a set of fresh linens waiting next to the full-length looking glass. I owe Spanks for new linens, she made a mental note as she dragged her dagger across the fabric, cutting it into thin strips of dressing cloths.
She worked methodically, keeping the pain in her mind at bay, but close enough to use it as a diagnostic tool. She probably had a fractured clavicle, some damaged tendons. The blood loss had been minimal, though she felt its affects now as the night pressed on. She cleansed the wound, using herbs harvested from her travels in the northern forest. She’d used the last of her sleeping draught in the forest, a decision she now regretted. Sleep would be elusive tonight, but she would make due. She could always sneak a brandy from the bar; Spanks would understand, he always did.
She stripped down fully to examine the rest of her bruised body, needing some peace of mind that she wasn’t as roughed up as she suddenly felt. She turned to face herself in the looking glass, indifferent to the woman she saw staring back.
Beautiful, she was. She possessed a tall, slender frame that held a grace few had the patience to learn and perfect, a grace that had saved her many times in confrontation. Some would say she belonged in long satin gowns of deep blues embroidered with silver and gold. These were the same who might insist that jewels belonged on her long, elegant fingers, or adorning the fair skin of her chest. The same who would maintain her hair belonged in long curly tresses, falling over her shoulders and spilling down her back like a black, silky waterfall.
Not she.
She wore her hair cropped short, spiking in an asymmetrical disarray, uneven bangs hanging across her face. Her clothes were simple, colorless. Her armor and weaponry were her most valuable possessions. The only adornment she carried was the ankh her mother left her, the only superfluous trinket she claimed as her own. It hung on a slim silver chain resting delicately just below the hollow base of her throat. Her complexion was smooth despite days without washing, but her skin bore the scars of many adventures in the wilderness. The bruises on her thighs and arms surprised her none, but the cut across her forehead was longer than she expected. It seemed to creep forth from her hairline, extending diagonally across her forehead nearly reaching her eyebrow. Her elfish face – with its sharp, pointed features – possessed beauty, but lacked perfection. Her nose was slightly crooked after sustaining a bad break about a year ago. She didn’t mind. Delicacy had never really been her style – it never needed to be. She’d been on her own, traveling, questing, bartering for most of her life. It suited her, and she never found herself in want. Save for tonight, when all she wanted was the peace of easy slumber.
She searched the room for a spare set of clothing, found sleep clothes tucked behind the basin of used water. Gratitude blossomed somewhere in her chest as she pulled the soft white garment over her head. She’d resigned to sneaking that brandy from the bar when a soft knock disrupted her thoughts. She cracked the door to find Spanks' wife, Martha, standing there silently.
The woman had a wide frame, short and stout and busty. Her hair was a flaming mane of curly red hair, randomly streaked with white. Her eyes were tired and wise, her lips pursed tightly in either understanding or disapproval…or both. She looked to Martha’s waiting hands to find a steaming cup of brandy extended to her. She met Martha’s eyes, startled to see a hint of a smile at the corners. Martha wasn’t a woman who smiled a lot…in fact the battered traveler couldn’t recall a time she’d heard the woman laugh. Martha wasn’t the warmest of women, but neither was she cold – just incredibly strong, even more so in her silence. Nodding her thanks, she closed the door and latched it, sipping the hot brandy.
Her pack lay beside the cot, waiting for her to explore the contents. She could not, not tonight. She would not. No matter how they pulled at her. Determined to sleep, she set her cup down and snuffed out the bedside candle, closing her eyes, willing silent sleep to find her.
Leigh…
The Voice whispered, not out loud, but inside her mind. Warmth spread from the center of her chest, down to her fingertips…made her ache, made her want.
She sat straight up in her bed, unwilling to play Its game. She groped for the brandy, downing every last drop in less than a few seconds. Immediately feeling the effects, she assured herself that sleep was just minutes away. Her eyes drifted shut.
Leigh…
“My name,” she mumbled grumpily, shoving her head under a pillow, “is Jael.”
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