I shake my head, feeling chagrined. No more spying. Time to meet this adventuring party face-to-face.
“I’ll make you rich.”
The merchant drops a burlap sack on the table—where it lands with a heavy thud—and slides it toward Jaylie. The clink of coins inside is enough to make Jaylie inhale sharply in surprise. But it’s not enough to convince her.
“I’ve heard that before, Dorna,” she says airily. “But I’m not after the money.”
Dorna smirks and rolls her eyes upward toward the dusty rafters of the old tavern. “All you priestesses are the same, claiming you’re above earthly temptations, hm? But I know the church of Marlana could use the money, and you won’t turn away a donation of this size. You take this job, and there’s much more than that in your future. I suppose it’s your lucky day, isn’t it?”
Jaylie withholds a sigh. As a cleric of Marlana, the Goddess of Luck, she’s heard that joke many times before. But Dorna’s not wrong. Shecoulduse the money.
“Anyway,” the older woman continues, tracing the pad of one ring-laden finger around the rim of her mug of ale, “this job is specially made for you, Jay. And I’m even giving you ateam.” Dorna’s muddy brown eyes spark as she leans forward, resting the bulk of her well-muscled figure on top of the table. Her leather armor creaks with the movement.
Interesting. Jaylie isn’t used to working with others. “When can I meet them?”
“Right now.”
Jaylie’s brows shoot up, and Dorna looks smug to have caught her off guard. “Wait here, aye?” Before Jaylie can protest, Dorna’s already on her feet and out the door of the small private dining room. The wood of the door is so old and warped that she can’t shut it all the way behind her.
Jaylie winces. Dorna has brought her solid job opportunities before, but it’s always a wonder that she insists on conducting her business in such an absolute shithole.
On a whim, Jaylie reaches for the merchant’s mug and takes a quick swig of liquid courage—or liquid sewage, from the taste of it.Marlana’s mercy, that’s awful.Trying not to gag, she presses the back of her hand to her mouth and shoots up a prayer to her goddess instead, hoping she can make a good impression on this group of strangers. Sheneedsthis to work out—every coin counts. Suddenly aware of her travel-worn appearance, she twists the messy golden waves of her hair into a quick bun just as the door creaks open again.
Dorna reenters and steps aside as an assortment of dusty travelers files in. Jaylie is surprised to discover that she and Dorna are the only humans in attendance, but from the way the newcomers size one another up, Jaylie assumes this is the first time they’re meeting, too. Good—she’s not at a disadvantage. As everyone moves to find a seat, Jaylie casts a sidelong glance at the purple-skinned giant of a man who sinks into the chair to her immediate left. He bares his fanged teeth at her, and Jaylie can’t tell if he is smiling or snarling; she’s far too distracted by the obsidian bull-like horns jutting from his temples to get a good look at his face. Atiefling! She’s heard stories about tieflings, and how you can recognize them by their horns or pointed tails. Supposedly they’re the descendants of the devils of Hell, or the products of dark infernal magic. Spooky as the stranger might appear, though, she knows this man’s devilish heritage gives him power—and rippling muscles, it seems. Badass.
“My friends.” Dorna stands at the head of the table and spreads her arms wide. All eyes swing to look at her. “How glad I am to finally get you all in the same room. I know we’ve had our separate business relationships, and all of you have worked with me as mercenaries for years. But for an opportunity like this, well—we coulduse a bit ofteamwork.” She straightens suddenly and snaps her fingers. Annoyingly on cue, a tired barmaid sweeps in with a tray full of new mugs of ale. Internally groaning, Jaylie prays for a strong constitution to face such poison again while Dorna smiles beatifically. “Introductions are in order. First off—”
“That’s sweet of you, Dorna, but it’s unnecessary. I’m sure I needno introduction.”
The elven stranger speaks with a smooth, lilting accent before Dorna can continue, and while the merchant’s smile freezes on her face, she seems unsurprised. Amused, Jaylie turns toward the speaker sitting across from her, and she swears his green eyes twinkle as they meet her gaze. He rises from his seat and regally inclines his head toward the crew like a lord presiding over his court. “But, if I must—I am Loren. Loren Rosewood.”
He pauses dramatically, as if waiting for applause. But Jaylie has never seen this man in her life; she would have remembered someone so striking. She’s met many pretty elves in her time—allelves are pretty, with their ageless features and bright eyes—but he’s got to be the handsomest one she’s ever seen.
Loren looks like he belongs on a stage, not in some dank room in the basement of a tavern. His clothing favors shades of green, brown, and gold in a combination of silks, delicate embroidery, and fine leather. His polished boots come up to his knees, and his frilly shirt is unlaced practically to his navel, showing off an impressive collection of necklaces and overlapping pendants. He has a ring on each finger and several gem studs pierced through his pointed ears. But it’s his hair that draws Jaylie’s gaze—it looks as if it’s on fire. At first she thinks it’s a rich auburn, but when he leans forward, the table’s lantern highlights threads of vivid copper and gold. Half of his wavy hair is pulled into a loose knot, leaving the rest to tumble over his shoulders, deliberately styled to look effortlessly messy. Jaylie strains not to roll her eyes at the pretense.
But before she can do that, her gaze narrows on the neck of a polished lute peeking over Loren’s shoulder.
Bard.
Of course.
“I’ve never heard of you,” Jaylie announces sunnily, flashing him a sweet smile. The others murmur agreement, their tones reflecting varying degrees of agitation and amusement.
Loren is unfazed. “Ah, then someday down the line, you can tell my fans that you were among thefirstto know me.” His gaze flicks down to the holy symbol strung on a thin chain around Jaylie’s neck: an amulet with the gold coin emblem of Lady Marlana proudly displayed. He winks. “Lucky you.”
Jaylie snorts, but her smile lingers on her lips. Arrogant asshole.
Handsome, though.
“Well, if you’re quite done…” drawls a smooth voice to Loren’s right. The dwarven woman sports a small half smile as she toys with one of the rings braided into her long, dark beard. Her hair is much shorter, braided close to her scalp and threaded with gold clasps. An assortment of leathers hugs her dark skin, and Jaylie spots a couple of knives sheathed at her thighs. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all, loves,” she quips. “I’m Morgana. I’m looking forward to working together.”
A beat of silence stretches out and hangs uncomfortably in the air, but once Jaylie realizes that the tiefling man to her left is in no rush to fill it, she speaks up. “I’m Jaylie Amberlight. I’m a priestess of the Church of Marlana.” Calling it achurchis a bit of a stretch. The Lady of Luck is hardly as uptight as some of the realm’s other deities, and her places of worship aren’t the traditional lofty and expensive cathedrals that other gods boast but cozy temples scattered across the land. “Dorna typically hires me for my healing abilities. I’ll keep you alive—if my Lady wills it,” she teases.
“And what if I’m looking for luck in other areas of my life?” Loren, of course.
Jaylie arches a brow and fixes him with a stare. “You’ll admit you can’t get by on skill alone?”
He only grins. Morgana lets out a ringing laugh, and the tiefling flashes a fang in what might be a smile. Jaylie counts it as a win.
