* * *
They crossed the narrow bridge that spanned the stream and entered Barloch. A few villagers paused their work to watch them pass, more curious than cautious. Chickens scattered from the road, and a cart creaked by, drawn by a single mule whose harness jingled softly in the still air.
The inn stood near the square, its weathered sign creaking on its hook. A faint scent of wood smoke drifted through the open doorway along with the murmur of voices and the clatter of mugs.
Dar dismounted first, tying the horse to a post. He turned to Elara, reaching to take her by the waist and lift her off the horse.
Once on her feet, he leaned his head low and warned, “Keep your hood up and your tongue still.”
She nodded and followed alongside him.
Inside, the air was thick with warmth and the tang of ale. A half-dozen men sat at rough-hewn tables, their talk dropping to a murmur when Dar and Elara entered. Eyes followed them, this time more cautious than curious.
Dar took hold of her arm, as if to let all know she belonged to him, as he guided her toward a table in the corner.
“Wait here. I’ll see to the horses and our lodging.”
His tone left no room for question, so Elara sat, drawing her cloak close. She watched him approach the counter where the innkeeper stood, a broad man with thinning hair, a beard streaked gray, and a skeptical look in his eyes. The two spoke quietly, the innkeeper’s brow lifting as he leaned forward as if their exchange was meant to stay private. Dar did most of the talking until the innkeeper nodded quickly, before gesturing toward the stairs that led to the rooms above.
When Dar turned back, Elara noticed how the others in the room shifted, their eyes following him. A few exchanged glances she couldn’t read, part recognition, part wariness, as though they knew him or perhaps knew of him.
He moved easily, unbothered by the stares, and yet there was something in his gait, a confidence edged with caution that made her wonder if he was no stranger to this place.
He dropped down on the bench across from her, his cloak falling open, the firelight catching the faint sheen of his dagger’s hilt. “We’ve a room for the night and a stall for the horses.”
“It is a good thing we have coin now,” she said, and he nodded, silence settling between them as they both scanned the room.
The serving woman arrived with two trenchers of stew and a loaf of bread. Elara murmured her thanks and as she reached for the spoon, her eyes caught glances cast their way from the other tables.
“They know you,” she whispered.
“Do they?” he asked, tearing a piece of bread as if it mattered not to him.
“They keep staring.”
He shrugged. “Curiosity, nothing more. Not many strangers come through Barloch.”
“How do you know that?” she asked, thinking he dismissed her own curiosity too easily.
His gaze met hers. “Eat your supper, wife. The day’s been long and don’t look for problems where there are none.”
Elara looked down at her bowl, but the question lingered. If he truly was only a wanderer, why did the inhabitants of a borderland village—one caught between three powerful realms—look at him like a man remembered, not merely noticed? But then he was a wanderer, what could he have done the last time he was here to be remembered and more so with caution than curiosity?
The stew was rich with barley and herbs, the kind of simple fare that would have satisfied her on any other night. But Elara’s mind wasn’t on the food. Every mile of the journey, the last few nights spent beneath trees and rain, had brought her here to Feena. She could not rest or waste her thoughts, not now that they’d reached the village.
She glanced toward the window where dusk was gathering. “I’ll finish quickly. We should go to Feena before night falls.”
Dar tore another piece of bread, dipping it into the gravy, his voice stern. “You’ll do no such thing. We’ve been four days on the road with little rest and less food. You’ll eat, then sleep, and go to her in the morning when the light’s good.”
“This cannot wait,” Elara argued.
He didn’t look up from his meal. “And if you collapse at her door, what good will that do?”
Elara bit back a sigh, her impatience prickling. “You sound more like a guard than a husband.”
He looked at her then, a hint of amusement glinting in his gray eyes. “I’m whatever keeps you in one piece.”
She might have smiled, had she not felt the weight of so many eyes still glancing their way. Men leaned close over their mugs, their talk muted, the air thick with something unspoken. She couldn’t tell if it was suspicion, curiosity, or recognition, and it unnerved her.