Avena smiled politely as the old woman dragged her along, complaining endlessly about her daughter. Soon, Ōbhin and the stable boy had Carstin stowed and Dualayn had placed the Recorder in his room. Avena found herself sitting at a splintered table with Ōbhin and Dualayn. Bowls of buckwheat noodles cooked with onions and strips of chicken all swimming in a broth of soy set before them. The salty aroma filled the air and rumbled Avena’s stomach. She found herself gripping her green-lacquered chopsticks in eager fingers, the thick enamel chipped off in places.
As she ate, she heard mutterings around them. She frowned at the intense look on the faces of the men as they leaned low over their tankards. The air rippled with sullen anger that made her squirm. Ōbhin’s eyes flicked around the room as he stiffly used his chopsticks despite his heavy gloves.
Does he ever remove them? she wondered.
“Is it a festival?” asked Ōbhin.
“Festival?” she asked. “The Feast of New Birth has passed and the Feast of St. Jettay isn’t for nearly a week.”
“The armbands,” he said. “Are they in offering to your Colour of Forgiveness?”
“We don’t make offerings to the Colours. They’re just different hues of Elohm. But, no, they’re supporters of the Green Briflon.”
Ōbhin gave her a blank look.
“Every Lothonian knows the three Briflon brothers. Many are loyal even now.”
“You see,” Dualayn said, speaking in that voice of authority he adopted when lecturing, “before the Exustin dynasty came to power, the Briflons ruled. When King Kashen died, his three sons each claimed to be the eldest.”
“It should be easy to know which one was the oldest,” Ōbhin said, stirring his noodles around with his chopsticks.
“They were triplets,” said Avena. Pain filled her when she thought about the Tri-Color War. Those who shared the same womb shouldn’t harm each other. Evane . . .
“Yes, yes, and though Kashith Briflon was acknowledged the eldest,” continued Dualayn, “his brothers were not content. The civil war tore Lothon asunder. Each brother adopted a different one of Lothon’s three colors: blue, green, and white.”
“Ah, and the Greens lost,” Ōbhin observed. “Hence, the show of support and the anger in the room.”
“Yes, the Blues won, but Gerey Briflon died in the final battle. His close ally, Anglit Exustin, took command, negotiated peace, and founded the current dynasty.” Dualayn looked around. “I imagine the new grain tax I heard talked about before we left Kash passed through Parliament with King Anglon’s support.”
“They say it’s to pay for improvements,” a sullen barmaid with her hair entwined with long, green ribbons said. She refilled Ōbhin’s tankard and topped off Avena’s.
The local beer wasn’t as bad as the smell promised. Avena wasn’t much for alcohol, but the last few days had stressed her. She took a foamy sip.
“‘Course, only the Blues will benefit. The king remembers which villages supported his faction.” The plump barmaid gave a violent toss of her head and flounced off.
“I see,” Ōbhin said, voice neutral.
Knowing the source of the mutters relaxed Avena. She’d grown up north of Kash where being White had defined many. Is that why Mother used whitewash?
That disturbing thought, and its accompanying rush of memories, had her reaching for her mug and taking a deeper sip. She let the rich brew wash through her body. Before she knew it, her tankard lay empty.
“Thirsty?” noted Dualayn, a tinge of shock to his voice.
Cheeks warmed, she nodded and grabbed her chopsticks.
After eating, Dualayn pushed back from the table first, pleading fatigue and his desire to sleep in a bed, “no matter how many companions might be sharing it,” he said in a jovial manner.
Avena winced, not desiring to wash her hair with saffron oil and apple vinegar again to kill bedbugs. The sour smell had lingered in her hair for weeks. Perhaps that was why she found herself lingering over her tankard, never emptied thanks to the barmaid. She had a warm smile on her lips as she watched Ōbhin drink his beer, earthen mug clenched in sable-clad fingers.
The warmth spreading out of her belly fueled questions brimming in her mind. A man of violence, heart smothered in Black indifference, and yet defied his companions for a friend, faced the tattooed man without flinching, cared in the days that let bright colors shine through his soul despite the miasma choking it.
What were you like before you broke? she wondered, unable to stop looking at his dashing features. Were you as empty as me?
*
Ōbhin felt Avena’s eyes on him more than the warm gaze of the pleasantly plump barmaid. Avena scrutinized him between sips of her beer, making him shift. His shoulders rolled, and he adjusted how he sat upon the rickety chair.
The silence between them, despite the raucousness of the bar, weighed at him. He took a final gulp of the sour swill, missing the syrupy bruash, then said, “It surprises me that you like ale.”
She froze as she brought the tankard to her lips. She blushed, highlighting the girlish delicateness of her cheekbones. She moistened pink lips, her glossy eyes flicking from his downward.
“You seem like a woman who follows your Elohm’s Colours.” He took a sip. “Isn’t Temperance one of them?”
“The Blue,” she said and straightened her back. “Well, I was raised by the Daughters of Compassion, so they gave me a thorough education.”
He frowned at her.
“Cloistered women dedicated to Elohm. They raised me after . . .” Pain flickered across her honest face. “When I was old enough, they arranged for me to work as a maid for Dualayn.”
“Who’s not your father,” Ōbhin noted, curiosity brimming in him.
“I was promised to wed his son,” she answered.
“Was?”
Darkness flickered across her expression. “He passed away.” Her rich brown
