made the mistake of pushing Rohini past
She smiled sweetly at Brother Vartan. “I have to return to the acolytes.”
“Oh, of course,” he said. “But … we must have evenfeast later to discuss things. I shall be in the chapel in contemplation. Would you meet me there?”
Rohini smiled because she could not shudder. It might have been old and without a dedicated cleric, but the chapel was still hallowed ground. It would still be colder than a sword in a snowdrift in the heart of the Fifth Layer. It would still force her away.
“Certainly,” she said. “Until then.”
She watched Vartan walk away. She would simply have to find some task to engross herself in-caught up laboring over some poor spellscarred fool, perhaps. Or listening to an acolyte’s private heartbreak. She would pin her curls up, soft and loose, and find someplace where the sun’s low light would paint her in heartbreaking colors. That was the sort of follower Vartan wanted in her, romantic and feminine, traipsing after him with doting eyes and all the right, breathy questions. He would never think to ask why she hadn’t come to the chapel.
Rohini was so distracted by her planning that she walked into the wardroom without noticing the acolytes, and the succubus had only a moment to register that the young man who’d spoken earlier was disregarding her instructions and casting a healing spell.
Before she could stop him, his prayer was answered and traces of divine magic burst out in a scattered wind that bit into the succubus’s flesh like tiny icy needles.
The succubus flinched. Broken planes, but she hated acolytes.
The day had dragged on for so long, and the waybread Havilar had eaten a few hours before was nothing but a memory and an unpleasant taste in her mouth, but as the caravansary edged into sight, Havilar perked right up. A bed would be nice, dinner would be excellent, but most of all, Havilar was craving company. They were close enough now to hear the shouts of a wagon master and the whinny of horses. The sharp laughter of a woman rose above it and for a moment, Havilar imagined herself that woman-wild and carefree and striking to any eye-
“Havi!” Mehen barked. She looked over her shoulder to see Mehen watching her pointedly, and Farideh shaking out a wrinkled, hooded cloak. Havilar stopped cold.
“Tell me you’re joking,” she said.
“Put on your cloak,” Mehen said.
“It’s hotter than a campfire!”
“Put. On. Your. Cloak. You can take it off when we know what we’re dealing with.”
Farideh was wrestling her hood over her horns. Havilar gave her a pointed look. Mehen worried too much.
Farideh returned the look with a stern, wordless glare of her own, as if telling Havilar to put her damned cloak on.
Havilar scowled. Farideh worried too much too. At least between those two, Havilar figured, she didn’t need to worry much at all. But she knew if she didn’t follow suit, they’d never get to the caravansary-the two worrywarts would insist they sleep in the woods for “safety’s sake.” Away from anyone interesting.
“I think,” Havilar said as they crossed the mostly empty courtyard, “we should spend some of the bounty on new cloaks. Pretty cloaks. Ones that don’t look like tents. Or itch.”
“Havi, put your hood up,” Farideh said, “please?”
“No one’s here,” Havilar said. “They make them with ribbons and things, you know?”
Her sister’s frown twitched into a smile. “Which would go so well with your glaive.”
“It would if I put a ribbon on Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers.”
Farideh laughed, and Mehen scowled back at them as they reached the inn. “Havi, put your hood up.”
The taproom of the inn wasn’t terribly crowded, but it was early yet, hardly sundown. Havilar surveyed the occupants-a handful of men, each sitting alone and wrapped around their ales; a raucous group playing cards and not paying attention to anyone else; a couple old wagon masters leaning against the bar. More than a few were staring at the trio. None of them looked remotely worth talking to.
“
Mehen surveyed the room as well, looking for the bounty, no doubt. Havilar didn’t bother to look-she was sure Farideh was right. They had passed the dark-haired woman.
Mehen steered them to an empty table in the corner of the room and then went to the bar to pay for supper and lodging. Perhaps half those staring found something else to look at, until Havilar pulled her hood back a little- and a dozen pairs of eyes honed in on her.
“Havi-”
Havilar waved her off. “It’s too hot for that nonsense.”
In the shadow of her hood, Farideh flushed, but she said nothing. Good, Havilar thought. Maybe she was calming herself a little bit. Maybe she was worrying less about what a lot of boring old men thought. Havilar was sure Farideh would crave some company, too, if only she stopped worrying so much. Being driven out of Arush Vayem was the best thing that had ever happened to them-or it would be if she and Farideh would start taking advantage of it.
Mehen came back with two full bowls of greasy dumplings and a thin stew of greens and gravy. “Havi, put your hood up.”
“She’s right,” Farideh said. “It’s ungodly hot.” She looked down at the steaming bowls. “Especially if that’s supper.”
Mehen glowered down his snout at both of them. “The innkeeper says no food in the rooms. You have to eat down here, and that means you keep your cloaks on.”
“No one cares,” Havilar said, even though they were still getting a few curious looks.
“Stay here,” Mehen said. “Finish your suppers and go up to the room. Second room left of the stairwell. Then you may take off the cloaks.”
“Where are you going?” Farideh asked.
“To ask after our missing bounty,” he said as he walked away.
“
Havilar shrugged. “He’s being Mehen.” The doors opened and more people came in-more than a few caught sight of Havilar and stared. “I thought you two liked worrying together.”
Farideh picked up her spoon. “There’s a difference between being careful and not listening to reason.”
The dumplings were oily and heavily seasoned with onions, but they were hot and worlds better than old bread and dried meat. Havilar ate with one eye on the door and the people trickling in. These were a broader mix of sorts-younger, not-so-armed, looking around the taproom as if it were a novelty and not a fact of life.
Havilar elbowed Farideh. “Look. It’s that fellow you saved.”
The dark-haired boy lingered near the door, letting families and wagoneers go ahead. He looked tired, Havilar thought. Maybe that was why he didn’t look around or notice her and Farideh.
Farideh looked up and made a noncommittal noise. Havilar frowned at her, wondering not for the first time if there were something fundamentally wrong with her twin.
“What was his name again?” Havilar asked.
“Brin.”
Havilar nudged Farideh again with her elbow. “Go see if he wants to say thank you by eating with us.”
Farideh turned completely scarlet. “No.”
“Come on!”
“No!” She scraped the last of the gravy from her bowl. “Anyway, he seemed pretty happy to have us on our way.”
Now the boy was talking to the innkeeper who was shaking his head. The boy was getting flustered and arguing, but over the low din of the taproom, Havilar couldn’t hear about what. Maybe he didn’t want the dumplings.
“Let’s go,” Farideh said, standing. Much as she’d protested Mehen’s orders, she was still wearing the awful
