Page 113 of Starside

Mists. One of the reasons she said Raker wouldn’t find much to hunt so close by.

“And you … live on its fringes?”

“It didn’t used to be so close,” she says tightly. “Decade by decade, it creeps closer.”

I would ask why she hasn’t moved, but I understand, once we enter the village and a half dozen people nod at the woman and boys—before sharpening their gazes at us. They have a community here. A home.

The word hooks into a part of me and pulls behind my ribs. A mixture of sad and happy moments spill out from behind it.

I had a home, once.

I both mourn its absence … and celebrate the fact that I ever had one to begin with.

She stops in front of a small house with a painted wooden door that doesn’t quite fit its frame. There’s a large window, its glass glazed over by time. “Upstairs. Now,” she tells the boys, who scurry off, with some parting words for Raker that he, of course, does not reciprocate.

She shakes her head and leads us down the street, stopping at another home, this one with a few additional levels. She slips inside, then returns shortly with two keys. “Dinner will be brought up to you.”

Raker takes his key, nods, says his thanks, then slips through the door without another word.

“We really appreciate this,” I say when she hands me mine, and, with a tight smile, she steps back onto the bustling street.

The stairs are so narrow I wonder how Raker even got up them. The wood groans beneath my boots as I step into a small, comfortable room. There isn’t a tub … but there is a bucket of water, a cloth, and soap. I sniff it … and no, it doesn’t smell anything like Raker’s.

I carefully remove my clothes before smoothing the wet rag over my skin. Then I begin to wash my clothing, piece by piece, in the bucket. The rain got off most of the grime, but I take my time with the soap. Washing and rewashing until it’s all clean. I hang them to dry by the fire, put one of the bedsheets on the floor in front of it, and lie down, luxuriating in its warmth. I stare up at the ceiling. The walls are thin. I hear everything—from moving around, to people relieving themselves to … guests very aggressively enjoying themselves.

For some reason, that makes me think of Raker. I wonder what he’s doing in his room. Is it possible he’s found someone in this town? I think about the way he cut those trees down, how it released some of his frustration.

Does he need a release in another way?

What the fuck, Aris?

I shake away the thought. Raker seems like he would gut someone for even getting near him. And even if he did find someone to bed here, that is none of my business …

A knock on my door has me jolting upright. By the time I open it, wrapped completely in a bedsheet, only a tray awaits. The smell of hot soup hits me, and I nearly fall to my knees. Bread. There’s bread.

I drag the tray inside and waste no time sinking to the floor and eating my dinner there, too hungry for anything resembling restraint. My hands tremble as I lift the bowl to my lips and drink.

The moment the hot liquid hits my stomach, it lurches, but I keep drinking, hoping I don’t make myself sick. I eat every bite of bread.

Then I lie on my back and enjoy the feeling of a slightly full stomach.

Hours pass like this, listening to the groaning of the inn, until hunger finds me again. I curse the fact that I don’t have another set of clothing, before putting mine back on—they’re mostly dry—and slowly making my way downstairs, coin in hand. I half expect to see Raker doing the same thing. I half hope to see him, just so I won’t have to eat alone.

A warrior is staring up at me as I take the last step. But it’s not Raker.

“Look what we have here,” a deep voice drawls. “A human.” He’s sitting with an entire table of immortal knights, all in gleaming armor. A half dozen empty glasses sit in front of them. Just my luck.

I ignore him as I walk to the bar. I drop my coin, and the redheaded barmaid barely spares me a look before taking it, returning with a pile of unfamiliar carved metal, then a bowl of steaming soup. My mouth waters when its smell hits me. I could devour the entire pot. I begin to eat, as the chair beside me groans under the weight of a fully armored immortal.

Fantastic.

I keep my eyes on my soup. My inattention only seems to make him more interested.

“What is a mortal doing so far on our side? So close to the mists?” A thought seems to occur to him, and he slams his hand down onto the bar. “Right. The quest. It’s about that time now.” This close, I can smell the ale on his breath. He only gets closer. “Humans are so ugly. So blemished. But you … you’re one of the prettier ones.”

Wow, thanks, I think. I keep slurping my soup, hoping it will disgust him enough to leave me alone.

He doesn’t. He just studies me closer, ogling my body. I see the moment his gaze finally lands on my back. And the sword there. It took him a while, like he didn’t even entertain for a moment that I would have a weapon of value. His easygoing grin fades. “Say, how did a girl as spindly as you get a sword like that?”