THE SMELL OF PISS, damp, and stale beer assaulted Dayne's senses as he heaved open the doors to The Dripping Bucket, letting himself stumble inwards more from momentum than anything else. The common room was packed wall to wall. Traders, soldiers, travellers, beggars, cutpurses, and peasants. The clientele of The Dripping Bucket were as eclectic as any Dayne had ever seen. Everyone was welcome, until they weren't.
Drawing a breath in through his nose, he pushed his way through the drunken crowd, pain pulsing through him with each step. With his body no longer protected by the rush of battle, his muscles had begun to spasm, his bones had started to ache, and the Spark sapped at him, draining his energy like a hole in a keg. He collected a few sideways glances as he pushed his way through, but nothing out of the ordinary. The patrons of the Dripping Bucket were used to seeing people in his state stumble through the inn. In fact, Dayne was near certain that more blood had soaked into the floorboards of the Dripping Bucket than most battlefields.
"You've had a good night then?" the innkeeper asked when Dayne reached the bar. The man was easily a head above Dayne, with a slightly rounded belly, dark hair, and thick beard that sprawled outward from his face like wisps of smoke. He wore a grease-stained white shirt with a leather apron draped over his front that looked as though it had seen more summers than Dayne.
"You could say that," Dayne answered, clenching his jaw as a spasm shot up his back. "Are there any baths free?"
"Aye. I'll have one of the girls fill one with water. Hot or cold?"
"Hot or cold?"
The man shrugged. "Hot costs coin, cold costs less coin."
Dayne sighed before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small cloth pouch. He pulled open the drawstrings and slid a silver coin across the counter to the innkeeper.
"Cold it is."
Dayne narrowed his eyes and glared at the man. Reluctantly, he produced another silver coin and tossed it down beside the first. "You're a fucking thief, not an innkeeper."
"And you're not a soldier," the man said with a toothy grin, nodding towards the red and black leather armour that covered Dayne's body.
Reaching into his pouch, Dayne produced two more silver coins and placed them on the counter.
The innkeeper laughed, snatched up the coins and yelled back into the kitchen. "One of you wenches fill a bath for Master Hunter here. Hot."
His call was answered by a screeching shout followed by the sound of pots and pans clanging.
"Your bath will be ready in a few minutes. The door at the end of the hallway behind the stairs." With that, the man turned and began yelling at two patrons who were beating lumps out of each other at the other end of the bar.
His muscles urging him to move quicker, Dayne pushed through the crowd once more, making his way up the staircase on the left side of the common room. Once he reached his room, he pushed the door open, kicked off his boots, and dropped himself onto the edge of the rickety old bed.
The room was closer to a cell than anything else, no longer than eight feet, no wider than five. There were no windows, and the bed, with its rusted frame and worryingly damp mattress, took up all but the slightest bit of floor-space. The only source of light was a fragile-looking candle sitting in a holder atop a rotting wooden shelf beside the door.
Reaching down, Dayne stuck his hand underneath the bed and pulled out his worn leather satchel – the same one he had taken with him from Skyfell.
After few moments of searching, Dayne produced a small notebook, a pen, and an inkwell. With particular care, he undid the strip of leather that held the book closed. A length of orange silk ribbon bound to the inside of the book kept track of the last page Dayne had opened. Following the ribbon, Dayne opened the book and stared at the page for a moment. It held two names:
Loren Koraklon
Harsted Arnim
He placed the inkwell on his lap, unscrewed the lid, and dipped the pen into the ink. Then, letting out a breath, he crossed Harsted Arnim's name off the list. A sense of relief washed through him, followed by a pang of guilt which he quickly pushed down – a skill he had become quite adept at over the past two years.
"He deserved it," he whispered, screwing the lid of the inkwell back on. Images flashed through Dayne's mind. Images of blood fountaining from the man's throat, of the flames consuming him. He deserved every damn second of it.
Dayne stared at the page for a few more moments before adding a third name to the list. A name he had been searching for: Sylvan Anura. There were others on the ship that day, but those three needed to die.
Tilting his head back, he let out a long sigh before replacing the lid of the inkwell, closing the notebook, and laying everything on the bed beside him. Reaching further into the satchel, he produced a white linen towel and a bar of junil oil soap, scented with lavender and wrapped in cheese cloth.
His gaze lingered on the soap. Blood could be washed from a man's skin, but it would always stain his soul. Dayne had ended one hundred and forty-three lives in the pursuit of Harsted Arnim. Each one bringing him a small step closer to his goal. There was nothing that could cleanse those marks. I do what must be done.The drunken revelry in the common room was still in full swing as Dayne left his room, pushed his way down the stairs, through the crowd, and back towards the hallway that led to the bathing room.
The dark, dingy hallway stretched on for just over fifty feet, black mould spreading across its roof like moss on a forest floor. Twelve doors were set into the wall at either side, each one built from a wood that had seen its best days in the years before Dayne was born. The more Dayne thought about it, it seemed that he must have had one of the more luxurious rooms in the inn. Twelve rooms on each side, stretched over a fifty-foot hallway meant each room was only just wider than four feet. More coffin than room.
Reaching the end of the corridor, he threw the linen towel over his shoulder, turned the door handle, and stepped through.
The bathing room was about half the size of the common room, with six oblong wooden baths that stood about five feet apart, each stained a dark brown and banded with iron. In truth, they looked a far sight better than what Dayne had expected. The fact that they weren't leaking and didn't smell of piss were both positives in his opinion.
The only other person in the room was a dark-skinned woman, Narvonan by the look of her, who sat in the bath at the far right, her arms strewn over the edges of the wood, her head resting on the rim behind her, eyes closed.
Turning his attention from the woman, Dayne moved towards the bath closest to him, which was filled about two thirds, steam rising from the surface of the water. The closer he stepped to the bath the more his muscles ached and groaned, as though anticipating the relief the hot water would provide.
Dayne set the towel and soap down on a small side table that stood not a foot off the ground to the side of the bath. Grunting, he undid the straps on the blood-stained Lorian leathers and tossed them in a heap beside the bath. He then peeled off his shirt, the dried blood cracking as it was pulled away from his skin. He folded the shirt and set it beside the towel; it was followed by his shoes, socks, and trousers – in that order, leaving his shoes side by side at the foot of the table. Even damaged, covered in dirt, and crusted with blood, he still couldn't fight the compulsion to fold and arrange his clothes. "Regiment and discipline," his father had said. "The makings of a soldier, and the necessities of a man."An involuntary sigh escaped him as his right foot broke the surface of the water, the heat coming close to scalding him. After a few seconds of letting his body adjust, he lifted his left foot in, then carefully lowered himself into the hot bath, feeling his body ache as he did. He watched as the dirt and blood lifted from his skin, spreading out in circles, tainting the colour of the water to a murky reddish-black.
Dayne picked up the soap, removed the cheesecloth, and proceeded to scrub his body until his skin begged for mercy. Reaching back, he dug his fingers into the muscles at the back of his neck, pressing down, groaning as he tilted his head to the side. He sat there for a while, soaking in the bloody water, his eyes half glazed over as his mind wandered. Alina would be nearing her fourteenth summer now, Baren his nineteenth. He had failed them both. He had left them to be tied to Lorian strings, puppets. "There was nothing I could do," he whispered, burying his hands into the corners of his eyes. "I…"
Dayne let his sentence trail off at the sound of breaking water. Lifting his head from his hands, he opened his eyes and looked towards the source of the sound: the other occupied tub. For a moment, everything seemed normal. The dark-skinned woman just lay there, her head tilted back, her eyes closed, a broad smile on her face. But then, just as he was about to return to his thoughts, another head emerged from beneath the water's surface. A blonde-haired woman. She giggled as she lifted herself up and planted a kiss on the other woman's lips.
Dayne shook his head and laughed quietly to himself, embracing the momentary relief from the melancholy that followed him. He knew the woman had looked far too happy for someone bathing in a place like this. Dayne felt the heat of his cheeks reddening as his eyes locked with dark-skinned woman's, who was now staring directly at him. She gave him a wink, turning her attention back towards the other woman, running her fingers through the tangle of blonde hair.
Without a word, Dayne leaned back into the bath, closing his eyes, the moment of laughter leaving him. What he would have given to have Mera there with him. To feel her touch, her warmth. Even as children, her light had always pulled him from the darkness. I will return to you. I promise. I will kill Sylvan Anura, and then I will drive a blade through Loren Koraklon's heart.
After a while, he heard the two women exit the bath. The breaking of water, the dripping on stone, the giggling. He waited until the sounds had dissipated and was about to open his eyes and sit up when a woman's voice. "You don't mind company, do you?"
Dayne jerked up, snapping his eyes open, instinctively reaching for the Spark. He could feel its power pulsating in the back of his mind. The elemental strands coiling around each other, each one distinct, and yet not.
His eyes locked with the woman's, his heart thumping as he refrained from pulling at the threads of Air that waited for him. The woman stood beside the bath, naked as the day she was born.
"I'm perfectly fine on my own," Dayne answered, shifting in the bath, reaching for the bar of soap, watching the woman's hands for any sudden movement.
As though he hadn't spoken, she lifted a leg and stepped into the bath. "It's just," she said, lifting her other foot in and setting herself down into the water opposite Dayne. "I couldn't help but notice you staring."
The woman had eyes so dark they were almost black. Her stare sent a chill down his spine. She wasn't looking at him, she was looking inside him. Even still, he held eye contact. He would not let her win. "I wasn't staring."
"You were staring."
"I wasn't."
"You were." The woman's tone turned flat, as though the conversation was over and she had been victorious.
Dayne held the woman's gaze, trying his best to seem unperturbed by the whole situation. Though he was pretty certain he wasn't succeeding.
"Don't worry," the woman said, a wry smile curling her lips. "You're not my type." She gave Dayne a wink almost identical to the one she had given him before.
"Well, then why are you here?" Dayne shifted back a bit in the bath, trying to create more space between himself and the woman.
"I'm here for a very different reason." Every muscle in Dayne's body tensed as the feeling of cold steel touched the side of his neck. "Now, now, now. Relax. Don't try anything stupid because that would end badly. For you, not for me. I'd be fine. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have spoken. I simply would have slit your throat from ear to ear. You never would have heard a thing."
Without moving his neck, Dayne looked down and to his left to see the woman's leg was now out of the water, her foot beside his neck, water dripping, toes wrapped around a long needle, about an inch thick, with a point that looked as though it could pierce steel. She moves like a viper."What do you want?" Dayne said, his eyes not leaving hers, still holding on to the Spark. "I have nothing of value."
"Oh, but that's where you're wrong, Dayne Ateres. Somebody has put quite a large amount of gold on your head. And I like gold."
"How do you know my name?" Dayne's pulse quickened, his blood thumping through his veins.
To his surprise, the woman actually laughed, a look of incredulity spreading across her face. "That was probably the stupidest question I have ever heard. You, quite literally, have the sigil of House Ateres tattooed on your chest. I'm sure that seemed like a good idea at the time, but it's not ideal for hiding who you are."
"Who wants me dead?"
The woman didn't answer, instead, she continued staring at him, her eyebrow raised as though he had just asked the second stupidest question she had ever heard. Her leg was still protruding from the water, the tip of the needle pressed against his neck.
"All right. What do you want?"
"I either want my body's weight in gold or a very damn good reason not to kill you."
"I don't have any gold."
The woman shrugged. "Well then, you better have a damn good reason for me not to kill you."
"I don't have one."
"Don't lie to me, Dayne Ateres. I've seen the look in your eyes. I know when someone has blood yet to spill."
"If you're going to kill me, then kill me." Dayne pressed his neck into the needle, his stare unwavering, the threads of Air still waiting for his mind's touch.
"I didn't say I was going to kill you. I said if you didn't give me my bodyweight in gold or give me a damn good reason not to kill you, then I would kill you. The little details matter," she said with a shrug. "Did your father never teach you that?"
"My father is dead."
The woman grimaced, raising a fist to her chin. "Actually, I knew that. Apologies. Sentiment remains though. The little things do matter."
Dayne narrowed his eyes, tilting his head sideways. He couldn't decide if the woman was a genius, or if she had lost her mind.
"All right," the woman said, turning her bottom lip. "Meet me in the common room once you're dry. There's something about having you staring at my tits that just doesn't make this seem as serious."
"I'm not staring!" Dayne lifted his arms in defence.
"Why are you not staring? They're fabulous." The woman glared at Dayne as though offended.
"What? Why… I didn't mean to…"
"Oh, relax. They're just tits. Why do men always get so worked up about tits?" Out of the corner of his eye, Dayne saw the needle pull away from his neck, sinking back into the water, along with the woman's leg as she pulled herself from the tub, water rolling down her naked skin. She walked over towards the other tub, all the while still holding the long needle in her toes, dried herself lightly, then grabbed a long dress the colour of the setting sun and threw it on.
"I'll wait for you in the common room."
"What if I don't show?"
"I'll hunt you down and kill you in your sleep, and you'll never see tits again."
Dayne hoisted himself up so he was sitting upright in the bath. "I wasn't… fuck it. Who in the name of the gods are you?"
"My name's Belina," the woman said, tossing her towel over her shoulder, "Belina Louna."
Dayne stood at the door into the common room for what felt like hours before taking a deep breath, pushing it open, and stepping through.
He had thought about running. There was a door at the corner of the bathing room that led to the kitchens and then out to the street. He could have been ten miles away on horseback before she even realised he was gone. But if this woman had found him here, he had no doubt she would be able to find him again. Better to face her head-on.
It only took him a few seconds to find her, sitting in the corner of the inn, her sunset-orange dress a beacon amidst the mottled browns, green, and blacks of the inn. Where others fell about themselves, pouring ale down their throats and singing at the top of their lungs, Belina sat quietly, waiting, staring out the dirt-covered window at the night sky beyond. Her black hair was tied into tight braids that fell down past her shoulders, and the light from the tallow candle on the table cast a soft glow against her dark skin. Had Dayne not known any better, he would have though her almost peaceful.
Dayne had barely another moment to reconsider his decision before she turned her head and her eyes met his. She raised one eyebrow, gesturing to the seat across from her.
He crossed the inn, weaving in and out of the crowd as he did. By instinct, his hand fell to his hip. No knives, no weapons of any kind. If he left this table alive, he would never be so foolish again. His eyes flashed to the entrance of the inn – a set of double doors, no more than twenty feet from the table. A second route was through the kitchen behind the bar. A third through the door behind him. But the easiest would be the window beside the table. The wood was mouldy, crumbling – weak. If he tucked his hands beneath his armpits, he would avoid the worst of the breaking glass.
The window it is.
"You came," Belina said, puffing her bottom lip out.
Dayne sat himself on the chair across from her, his gaze never leaving hers as he rested his arms on the table. "You didn't think I would?"
"I hoped you would."
Silence gripped the air as both Dayne and Belina studied each other. He could see the look in her eyes. Could feel her weighing him, measuring him.
"What do you want, Dayne?" Belina asked, breaking the silence, leaning forward, resting her elbows on the edge of the table, her hands clasped together.
"You're the one who wants something," Dayne answered, keeping his tone level, his gaze locked.
The hardness of Belina's stare set Dayne's pulse racing. "What do you want?"
Dayne swallowed, his mouth growing dry. He became suddenly aware of his fingers tapping against the damp wood of the table, moving of their own volition. He forced them to stop. Two years he had walked the land. Two years. By blade and by blood, he had carved a path through Epheria in search of Harsted Arnim. In search of the one name he had learned that night. In search of answers. In search of vengeance. That path had led him from Skyfell to Oberwall. From Berona to Catagan. And finally, to where he sat right now. In all that time, he hadn't once said the words out loud. "I want to slaughter those who took my parents from me. I want to run my blade through Sylvan Anura's heart, so she may taste death and so I may return to Valtara, where I will strip the flesh from Loren Koraklon's bones. But more than anything, I want to feel the warm embrace of my brother and my sister. I want to let them know that I never stopped thinking of them. I want to let them know that I will always protect them."
The silence that followed Dayne's words was deafening. It reduced all sounds around them to a low drone that thrummed in the back of his mind. Voices faded, clattering tankards turned to dull thumps, stamping feet became nothing but a vibration through the floorboards. It was as though the words had shifted a weight within him, granted some form of relief to the burden he carried.
Slowly, Belina leaned back in her chair, lifting her arms from the table and crossing them. "You had me right up until the whole 'embracing your brother and sister part'," she said with a shrug. "I'm not really a touchy-feely kind of person. Unless it's the right kind of touchy-feely, but that's a whole different conversation." Sitting forward, Belina looked into Dayne's eyes. This close, he could see the gold-speckled brown of her irises. "I cannot promise you revenge. That is yours to take. But I know that name – Sylvan Anura. She is one of the Dragonguard. You wouldn't get within five feet of her with blood still in your veins. It may take years, but if you come with me, I will teach you ways to take a life that you had never thought possible. I will help you put that blade to her throat. What's more, I will bring you to a man who can find her. A man well versed in killing her kind."
"What do you want in return? What is your stake in my vengeance?"
"I want you, Dayne Ateres. I want your blade. I have a list of lives that require ending. A list that tethers me in place, binds me to this life. If you help me cut that tether, you will have your vengeance, or we will both die in the trying."
"Who are they?" Dayne asked, turning his gaze to his open palms. So much blood painted them already. "These people we are to kill."
"Servants of the empire – mostly. The same people who put a price on your head."
Dayne nodded absently, staring at the table, staring at nothing. "And you know someone who can bring me to Sylvan Anura?"
"I do. He used to be one of them, before The Fall – a Draleid. Now, he is their hunter."
"How do I know you are telling the truth? How can I trust you?"
"Because I let you live. I could have killed you months ago when I found you in Berona. Or again, when you slept in the trees of Kingswood, or under the stars by the Trorq River. But I didn't."
"You've been following me all this time?"
Belina nodded, her expression unchanging.
Dayne bit down on his top lip, scratching at the stubble on his chin. After a few long moments, he lifted his gaze, meeting Belina's stare. "We have a deal."