Again, he settles his gaze on the tree emblem. “Do you heal with magic?”
My breath catches. It’s a simple question, and one I get asked often enough. I always reply with the same fib.
“Yes.”
A Kyanite who cannot heal is as useless as a cart with no wheels. At least, that’s what the head mistress at the apothecary used to say.
You are useless, Sol.
You have no wheels.
No magic.
No gifts.
I blink, but her voice remains a bitter reminder in my ears.
Katya appears at my left with a tray overburdened with tankards and gives me a pointed look.
I stand, smooth my surcoat, and address the man. “Thank you for the conversation.”
The man pushes the leather bag toward me. “Take the coins.”
I hesitate as indecision ripples through me. If I take the coin, I would be one step closer to my Fate. If I don’t, I wouldn’t be beholding to this Bloodstone man.
With her free hand, Katya yanks up the bag and shoves it against me. “Take it.” I barely place it into the leather satchel tied to the belt at my waist before she thrusts the tray into my arms. “People are waiting to be served.”
Red singes my ears as I distribute the ale. People had witnessed Katya chastising me.
The stranger remains at the table, his tankard half full. He doesn’t speak to anyone else, and he doesn’t leave until nightfall settles over the modest town.
When the tavern empties, I sit in a corner and sip on a tall tankard of ale Katya gave me. As I drink the bitter liquid, I mull over everything that led me to this town. I gave the mercenary army three summers. Hopefully, it was enough training.
“Sol,” Luther calls out as he waves a hand, trying to get my attention. “You can go.”
I turn as blots blur my vision, and the noises dim to an indiscernible pitch. “Go?”
He waves his hand again. “Yes. It’s closing time.”
“Time,” I say into my ale and take another sip. “I like time.”
“I’ll help her.” Katya crosses the room to where I slouch.
Gratitude strums through me as I stand and allow her to take my arm. I drank too much again. Or did I? I try to glance back at the tankard, to see how much I left inside the stoneware.
Katya jerks me away, guiding me toward the back of the alehouse and to a set of stairs leading to the lower level. Luther allows us to rent the rooms below for a reasonable price.
“Sol.” She shakes me, and the dots multiply, swarming my vision like a parade of sparkling diamonds. I blink, but they keep building and building.
“I’ll take her,” a familiar voice says.
The stranger?
“Wait,” Katya says, as she tugs at the satchel at my waist.
“Leave it,” the man says, his voice sharp.
“But you prom—”
